


Heirs of Bard

by kenporusty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo being Bilbo, BoFA, Canon Compliant, Complete, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Gold Sick Thorin, Violence, flexing the timeline a bit, geography?, not COMPLETELY canon to the movie verse, what geography? I'm making it up as I go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenporusty/pseuds/kenporusty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, there was a dragon. At the ending, there was a memorial. In between, there were events that would change the children of Bard and their cohorts forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days after Smaug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death in this chapter.

_27 September TA 2941 to 03 October TA 2941_

Bard fled as soon as the Black Arrow left the Windlance, not daring to look back. He dodged falling stones as the dying dragon ripped into the tower, pouring flame, rage, and pain. A large stone struck his shoulder, sending a wave of pain through his body. He staggered and caught himself against the wall turned hot by a dying dragon’s flame. Time slowed with fear and pain and anger. Bard could hear nothing but the scrape of claws on stone and wood and the pounding of blood in his ears.

He looked back just once before jumping into the canal.

He knew the water was cold. He’d felt the bite of it too many times before. He, of all people, knew the lake intimately. Still he leaped from the base of the tower, the frigid water forcing his body into a knee-jerk reaction. He gasped, inhaling water and air, and surfaced choking and coughing. His injured shoulder restricted his swimming, but only by little. He cleared falling debris, a spar missing him by inches. The wave of water displaced by the dragon carried him down the canal, depositing him on a boardwalk.

Like his daughter, he couldn’t remember how he made it to shore.

 **

Bard and his family survived the destruction of Lake-Town where many perished that night. When the fat, bloated mass of the Master washed ashore, he said very little. In the days after, he and the others well enough to travel walked the lakeshore, and took their boats to the other shore to search for both those who survived and those who didn’t. The living buried their dead and raised both cairns and their voices for them.

Bard waited by Sigrid’s bed, even as a make-shift village was built around him. Oin, the old healer, kept his daughter asleep so she could recover from her injuries, and little by little, day by day, Bard began to cough. As Sigrid healed, he sickened, soon unable to get out of bed, his fever so high Oin carried ice from the lake to break up and put on his chest to cool him.

He called his children to his bedside and called them brave. He told them he was proud of them, and their mother would have been so proud. He told them to carry their names and their lineage with honor, and he would be there for them. He said he regretted that Sigrid was too ill to see him one last time. Bard died with his family. Tilda took his place by Sigrid’s bed, crying until she hiccupped and fell asleep. Bain disappeared for long stretches of the day. The town mourned and paid their respects one-by-one, and together buried the man that brought hope, and rebellion, to their little town.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the night of Smaug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing here is canon to the movie, except a few names. All the events are my own choreography. I'm sorry for any confusion.

The people of Lake-Town looked at the mountain with a nod of their heads and a curse. Death be upon those who try to retake the mountain. Erebor. The lost Kingdom of the Dwarves, fallen to the dragon Smaug. Many have tried, great and small, to smuggle a fraction of the wealth from the halls, all falling to the same fate: teeth like spears, or the breath of a furnace.

 

_27 September TA 2941_

 

Sigrid felt the ground shake, and saw the smoke pouring from the distant, looming mountain from the window of her father’s house in Lake-Town. The injured Dwarf, Kili, was asleep on his impromptu bed of the kitchen counter; the Elf, Tauriel, slumped in a chair in some sort of daze – her witchcraft left her with little energy. Tilda, the youngest, went between the Dwarf and the Elf, peering at first one, then the other. The other Dwarves - Bofur, Fili, and Oin - talked quietly among themselves. Bain, the middle child, returned empty handed and without Bard, their father. He told her of what happened, and where he hid the black arrow. He also apologized for “missing all the fun,” which made Tilda snicker.

“Bain, go fetch da from the prisons. Fast as you can now, go!” She shooed her brother out the door, looking always at that mountain, thrice cursing it and cursing the Dwarves it brought.

Bain nodded, hurrying through the empty streets. The recent raid of Orcs scared everyone inside or into the shadows. He thought he should shout that they were gone, but he didn’t. Towards the town gate and the bridge, he heard a scuffle, but ignored it. The prison wasn’t far, just another block, across the boats, up the stairs, and there!

Of course the guards were drunk, that was only natural in this town.

“Da!” Bain hissed, pressing himself against the bars.

“Bain! How are your sisters? How is the Dwarf?” Bard came to the bars, casting a weary look towards first the guards, passed out, and the mountain, still bellowing smoke.

“That’s complicated. I’ve come to get you out!”

Bain found a large piece of wood and a box, and used them to lever the iron gate up enough for Bard to slip his hand through and pull out the pin of the bottom hinge. He pushed the gate out enough to escape before the _clang_ of the gate. Bain was good at getting the door up, not so good at letting it back down again.

Bard’s family were all very clever, very smart, and that made him proud of them. They had enough to get by, and Bain had a little extra, which he hoped wouldn’t mean he’d follow in his father’s footsteps.

He dropped the pin back into the hinge and he and his son fled through the streets.

“The house stands, Sigrid and Tilda, well, you’ll see when you get there, and the Dwarf is fine. The Elf did some sort of magic and healed him.” Bain panted. They darted from shadow to shadow, though they weren’t in any real danger.

“Elvish magic, don’t be daft lad.”

Over a bridge, ignoring the sound of the scuffle and the retreating of feet, up the stairs, and into the house.

Littered with dead Orcs.

“You fought them off?” Bard asked incredulously.

“With some help from the Dwarves and Elves.” Tilda said excitedly.

“Da, the mountain…” Sigrid’s voice wavered.

“The dragon, I know. Whatever Thorin did in there, he is a fool for it.”

Bard ignored the indignant noises from the other Dwarves.

“Bain, I want you to get out there, and wake the people. Get them out. Tell them their lives may be in danger.”

“But we don’t know!” Sigrid interjected.

“But we don’t know we’re safe.”

“Da, the arrow!” Bain said.

“Show me where the arrow is, and then go.”

“Da, what do you want us to do?” Sigrid asked.

“You help your brother. Get the Dwarves and Elf to shore, and make sure your sister gets there. Don’t use the causeway, use the boats. Open the gates, jam them open if you must. Go on.”

“The butcher?” Sigrid asked Bain.

“Butcher shop.” Bain nodded.

Bard and Bain were out the door. Sigrid roused the sleeping Dwarf and Elf. She also learned not to wake a Dwarf as she ducked a flailing punch. Fili was there to calm Kili.

“You have to get to the shore now.” She told them

“What’s happening?” Kili asked, drowsy and lethargic still.

“The mountain. Smoke pours from the gates and the forges. The dragon is awake, and we fear for Lake-Town. We’re afraid of an attack from the dragon.”

“The beast is dead, your father is over reacting.” Oin said, grouchy.

“We can’t know for certain.” Tauriel sided with Sigrid as she pulled arrows from corpses.

“You need to get to the shore and get to safety. Tilda will help you.” Sigrid put her hand on her sister’s head and turned her back before anyone could argue further.

Tilda was handed a coat, and the others received blankets and old cloaks.

“Keep warm.”

Sigrid was the first out of the door, hurrying to meet Bain.

Tilda smiled at the guests in the house, “well, come on.”

Fili carried Kili on his back, the younger falling back asleep as they followed the little girl down the stairs.

“Thank you for helping Kili.” Fili said quietly.

“You’re welcome. It would pain me to see one so young perish so early.”

Tilda turned a corner and pointed at a small row boat tied up behind the house.

“Get in, and row that way down the canal, I’ll see you at the main gate.” She pointed towards the main gate. “It should be a straight shot.”

She was gone before the Dwarves even got settled.

“Bard is raising a whole family of thieves and smugglers. Nori should be quite pleased with them.” Fili laughed.

Tauriel adjusted Kili, who groaned again in his sleep, shifting and sweating.

“Does he have a fever, lass?” Oin asked.

“No,” Tauriel over exaggerated her headshake. Oin grunted.

Fili pulled in the ropes, kicked off, and took up the oars. It took him some time to get them going in the proper direction and straight but he managed.

 **

Tilda ran ahead of the little boat, knocking on the doors of her neighbors as she went.

“The dragon wakes, evacuate, evacuate.” She called, almost as a song.

She was out of breath when she reached the toll gate. She doubled over, hands on her knees, sucking air. She left a string of confused and scared civilians behind her.

“Tilda, what brings you here in a rush?” The guard, Percy, came out of the hut, yawning.

“Open the gate. Open the gate, and leave it open, we have to evacuate.” She panted.

“I can’t, not without the approval of the Master, what’s the rush?”

“The dragon. The dragon is awake. He will come burn us. Please, open the gate and let us through.”

“Now there’s no proving that, go on home.” He tried to push her back down the dock.

“No!” She wrenched away from the guard, raising her voice. “You have to listen to me! The dragon will come, and he will burn the town! Please, open the gate and let us through! As the daughter of Bard, I command you to let us through.”

Percy stopped, “I am honor-bound to any heir of Girion, but I am also bound to the Master.”

 **

Tilda went to the crank for the gate. She grunted and threw all of her weight into it. It moved a fraction. She sighed and tried again. On the third go, it moved effortlessly.

“You’ll wear yourself out.” Percy smiled, helping her open the gate.

“Go on, lass. I’ll keep it open for everyone.” He smiled down at her.

“Thank you!” Tilda grinned and retraced her steps.

Tauriel caught her as their boat passed.

“Tilda, get in!”

“I can’t!” Tilda pulled away. “I need to help others, they need to get out.”

“We don’t even know if there’s a dragon coming, you could be causing a stir for nothing!”

“Better to cause a stir then everyone die!”

She left again, following the boardwalks to the secondary gate.

 **

Sigrid found Bain under the eaves of the butcher shop.

“Da has the arrow?” Sigrid asked.

Bain nodded, “so now what?”

The ground shook, and the lake water lashed the boardwalk angrily. Sigrid produced a map of the town from the pocket of her apron.

“You take the left side, knock on every door, raise a ruckus, tell them the dragon is coming and they need to leave by boat. The causeway isn’t safe. I hope Tilda got the main gate open.”

She traced a path that avoided the Master’s home, “take that route, and when you’re done, get out. We’ll regroup on the shore.”

“What about da?”

“He’s strong, he’s smart, and he’ll survive.” Sigrid clenched her jaw, adding an internal _“I hope.”_ Bain’s jaw tightened as well as he nodded.

_“He’s thinking the same thing.”_

“See you on the shore,” Bain grinned and was off like a shot, across the canal, banging on every door, and yelling.

Sigrid watched him go before turning and taking her route through the city, rousing everyone she could.

“Sigrid, what’s all the fuss, lass?” Old Mr. Bjorn asked, stopping her in her flight. “Why raise such a noise this late at night? Especially when the people are already scared from the Orcs traipsing all over our rooftops!”

“The thrice cursed mountain and its dragon. The dragon is coming for us. Please, Mr. Bjorn, wake your family, you have to go.”

“A dragon, eh? I will stand and fight then. I was there for Dale and I will be here for Lake-Town.”

Sigrid looked amused, “That was over a hundred years ago!”

Old Bjorn simply winked at the girl.

“But you must go. The dragon is unstoppable, it will destroy us all, you included. Please, wake your family, take your things and go.”

Sigrid was gone again. In her wake, and in Bain’s wake, streams of sleepy, confused folk came from homes, and all turned to Erebor, seeing the smoke, and understanding the children’s fear.

“Too much blood has been shed for that mountain,” Sigrid swore and pushed through the stitch in her side that threatened to stop her.

 **

Sigrid ran down the boardwalk until she was stopped by someone grabbing her arm from behind. She swung around and came face-to-face with Alfrid, who held her upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

“What’s going on, Sigrid, why are you alarming the people?” Alfrid asked.

“The Dwarves. They’ve woken the dragon and the dragon will come for us. Please, let me go, Alfrid, the people need to be warned.” Sigrid tried to pull away, panic rising in her normally calm voice.

“No, the Master has not ordered an evacuation, so the people will not leave. He’s already had the gates shut tight.”

“The Master needs to order an evacuation, then, the people need to leave, and they need to leave now.”

Alfrid looked thoughtful, “why don’t you tell the Master yourself?”

“He wouldn’t believe me. He would have me locked up for treason.”

“That sounds about right.”

She grabbed what she could as she was forcibly drug down the street: a sturdy piece of wood. Mustering all her strength, she swung at Alfrid, hitting him broadside, knocking him sideways. She went with him as he fell, tumbling from his grip and into the frigid water. She sucked a lungful before she went under, and refused her body’s instinct to gasp as the shock of the water hit her. Her da taught her better than that.

 **

At the Master’s opulent home, a crowd of concerned and confused people convened.

“You would rather trust this daughter of Bard? A mere lass, mind you, to tell you when to evacuate because more smoke comes from the mountain?” The Master laughed at the people gathered, demanding he reopen the gates.

“Lass or no lass, she has a brave soul, and she is the descendant of Girion!” Old Bjorn stepped forward. “We would sooner follow Bard and his children than you and your slimy advisor any day.”

The Master affected a mockingly sympathetic tone, “because Bard knows what is best for the town, and knows what’s best for the people.”

“Yes! Let her go, and let us go!”

“We don’t have her, and I won’t open the gates until I see the dragon with my own-”

The Master was cut off by a shriek and a bellow from the skies.

“The dragon Smaug has come to destroy us!” someone in the crowd screamed.

 **

Tilda did something she rarely got away with. She swore. The gates were closed now, the guardsmen replaced by those more loyal to the Master, and they refused to reopen the gates. People who heeded the children’s warning took to the boats with what they could carry. Tilda was impressed at the sheer number of citizens in their small town, but also concerned because no one was getting out.

Bain and Tilda met again at the ruined causeway. She wasn’t sure why the bridge to the shore was wrecked, but she guessed panic and the Master.

“Isn’t Sigrid with you?” Tilda asked.

“No, she took a different route. She said we’d meet up again on the shore.” Bain chewed his lips.

“She’ll get out,” ever optimistic Tilda. “Until then, we have to get out.”

“How? The gates are shut.”

“Main gate. Come on, Percy will open it for me. He’s loyal to anyone but the Master.”

Tilda took off full-tilt towards the main gate, Bain following, breathing hard, and pushing through panic and exhaustion. They pushed through the panicking people, who tried to stop them and question them.

“We have no time, my apologies.” Bain repeated many times through their flight.

“Let us out!” Tilda cried at the gate keeper.

“The Master has given orders, I can’t.” Percy frowned. Another guardsman stood beside him looking stern.

“Hang the Master and hang his orders! You told me you were loyal. Show your loyalty and let us out!”

Percy looked concerned, “we’re not even sure the dragon is coming, wouldn’t he be here by now?”

The words left the gate keeper’s lips and the scream came, inhuman and unholy. The sound, a guttural roar and scream of a dragon bent on revenge. They all looked up to see the beast, resplendent in crimson and terror, circling the town, lazily choosing which part to set ablaze first. Smaug the Terrible dripped fire, setting homes and docks ablaze. Frightened and panicked people leaped into the icy water to escape. Others stared in a stunned silence as their homes and shops, and the really excellent tavern, went up in a blaze of the dragon’s glory. Someone in the crowd wailed, a foreign cry to an unnamed god for salvation.

Tilda clung to Bain’s arm, flinching at the sound of burning wood.

Still the monster circled, quite pleased with the fear he ignited like the flimsy homes of the people.

Percy watched the dragon circle.

“Hang it all,” he said, shoving the other guard into the canal and reopening the gate.

Someone pulled Tilda and Bain into boats. Tilda clung to her unknown rescuer and cried for all the fear and terror and death in her town and her people. Smaug had come once more, and the town seemed doomed, much like Dale. Panic caused a bottleneck at the gates, but someone started singing an old tavern song, which spread to other boats to help calm others. In a steady stream, people rowed for freedom and life into the dark lake. Tilda calmed enough when her savior, a widowed mother, started singing a lullaby. She looked out at the points of light scattering across the water as the boats and refugees fanned out.

 **

Smaug ceased his games, pleased with the fear. He could smell it in the air. His eye caught sight of something he hadn’t seen in decades: a Dwarvish Windlance, curved and deadly for any creature but a dragon. Behind the lance, carefully aiming at his beautiful hide, caked with treasure, stood a man. With a hideous laugh, Smaug hovered in the air and taunted the fragile man.

“So you think you can defeat me?” The dragon asked.

The man stood stoically, heroically, and silent. The wind from his great wings, the hurricane he so proudly boasted of, buffeted the dark hair.

“I will give you one shot with one final arrow, but you are as pathetic as the mice that scurry now in my caverns. Nothing can pierce my hide, my armor is iron.” Smaug spoke matter-of-factly, unnerving the man on the tower.

“One shot is all I need, beast. Those cursed Dwarves woke you, failed to kill you, and set you upon my town. I am Bard the Bowman, and I will finish what my ancestor started.”

“I remember your ancestor well, perched in the towers of Dale. Time and again, he fired his arrows, so sure the next shot would be the killing blow. I should have feasted upon him when I had the chance.” Smaug sneered.

The dragon took flight, swooping and circling.

“So, second son of the creator, take your shot. You only have one.”

Bard took careful aim and fired.

 **

Kili woke with a start, struggling against the calming pressure of Tauriel’s hand to his chest.

“Be calm,” Tauriel said, pressing him down into the bottom of the boat.

“Where are we?” Kili gasped, “What is happening?”

“Uncle,” Fili bit into the word, “has woken the dragon. We’re in a boat fleeing from Lake-Town.”

Bofur had taken over rowing so Fili moved to sit with his brother’s head in his lap.

“Great, Mahal save us all.” Kili groaned, trying to shift his bound leg, hissing.

“Is he in pain?” Oin asked.

“Not great pain, not yet.” Kili said, scrunching up his face.

“When we reach the shore, we’ll get something in you that will kill the pain in no time flat.”

“If we reach the shore,” Bofur said ominously.

Their boat was one of many streaming from Lake-Town, the ones lucky enough to make it before the Master ordered the gates closed.

Smaug the Terrible, defeated by none before! Claimant of Erebor and Exhumer of Dwarves! The Thief Biter! The Gold Hoarder! He Who Cannot Be Defeated!

Perhaps the dragon lingered too long, perhaps he miscalculated the skill of the man who called himself “bowman,” but as he postured, as he posed, as he displayed his natural prowess, Bard loosed the arrow. The black Dwarvish iron whistled through the air, striking that vulnerable point in Smaug’s hide, where a single scale was knocked free. The dragon spouted flame in rage and defeat, cursing the men as he fell. The iron shot pain through his body, lighting every nerve, sinking deep into his chest. Smaug’s heart was pierced as he fell. A great flailing of limbs, and tail, and wings wrecked the tower. His bulk shattered the docks, and the town, sending a surge of water to flood what remained.

The Greatest Calamity of the Age died as he sunk below the black water, his fire extinguished in a great belch of steam and noise.

On the shore and in the water, the refugees cheered, even as their town burned and fell to the thrashing of a great worm.

 **

Sigrid remembered hitting Alfrid, and she remembered hitting the icy water. She remembered struggling to the surface and pulling herself to the docks. She didn’t remember much after that.

She was lost to chaos and panic. People trying to flee, carrying their worldly goods in satchels and baskets. She walked - freezing, stunned, and in pain masked by adrenaline - through the crowd. Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and urged her to get into the boat with them. She politely waved them off, thanking them for the blanket and continued to wander in a daze.

She remembered seeing the dragon come, hearing and feeling the terror of the people, mixing her voice with theirs as she screamed for her father; then everything exploded in the sound of shredding wood and screaming metal and the cacophony of panic. Somewhere along the line she blacked out, body tossed about only to be rescued by Old Bjorn and spirited from the city.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilda is a good sister.

_10 October 2941 to 13 October TA 2941_

Sigrid woke in a bed on dry land. She still smelled burning and when she moved, everything hurt. She made a small noise of panic and something moved at the foot of her bed. Tilda looked up, first confused, then excited.

“Sigrid! You’re awake!” The little girl came around the side of Sigrid’s bed and hugged her gingerly.

Sigrid tried to speak but her words were mashed and mangled, more noise than syllable. She chewed her lip and looked at her sister.

“You’ve been asleep a long time, Sigrid. You were hurt really bad, and Oin had to give you something to stay asleep so you could heal. Maybe your voice will come back when whatever it was wears off.”

Sigrid shrugged, and tried to keep calm. She made frustrated noises and started to cry. Everything hurt again, and now she couldn’t say anything.

“I’ve been so scared, Sig, I’m glad you’re awake.” Tilda whispered and began to cry as well.

_I’m cold, and wet, and something hurts. I don’t know where I am, and everyone is being so nice. Someone gives me something warm and tries to take me but I can’t! I keep walking. Everyone is in a panic and no one can tell me anything. When they talk, it’s all garbled._

_I hear a beast, a terrifying sound, and I panic. I’m looking at it, at a dragon, and all I can scream is the word “da.” My face is warm and I think I’m crying. The creature is angry, it’s pulling apart a stone and wood tower and burning everything. There’s something sticking out of its chest and it’s falling. When it hits the ground, the impact throws me. I must have been close enough. I must have been going towards that tower for a reason, maybe the reason I yelled “da.” I fly through the air and strike something and then everything hurts more and my vision goes black._

Sigrid wrote down her recurring nightmare on a piece of paper given to her by Tilda. The younger frowned.

“Old Bjorn said he found you unconscious in a boat after da defeated Smaug. Maybe you were reliving that?” Tilda shifted so she sat cross legged on the bed. She handed Sigrid another sweet bun.

Sigrid took the bun and shrugged. She’d been in and out of sleep and Tilda remained by her side the whole time. Even when Sigrid broke down or panicked because her voice wasn’t getting better. Tilda was there to fetch her water, or food, or for a hug. She was grateful for everything.

Her head felt less cloudy and whatever the old Dwarf gave her for her pain worked like a charm, and the pain dissipated to tolerable levels. Her left arm was largely immobilized.

“Your shoulder was dislocated and some ribs might be broken, so Oin thought it was best to tie everything so it won’t get worse.” Tilda explained.

Sigrid was amused to find her bindings to actually be bed sheets.

“You hit your head really hard, and you woke up a few times, but Oin said you had a concussion. He said he hadn’t seen concussions and head injuries since the Blue Mountains. You had a broken nose, and he thinks debris fell on you when you got injured. Old Bjorn said he found you close to the tower where da was, and he thinks the impact threw you. Everyone is glad you landed in a boat instead of in the canal.” Tilda explained again as she got up and straightened the bed. She’d have to explain everything again when Sigrid woke up again, but she didn’t mind. She had a good memory and told Sigrid the correct things.

 _“Where’s da?”_ Sigrid wrote on the paper.

Tilda frowned. “He’s dead, Sigrid, he died while you were asleep.”

Telling her sister over again that their father died didn’t lessen the blow for either of them.

“You should sleep some more, Sigrid.” Tilda said, taking the tray of rolls off the bed and putting them on a salvaged table.

_“Where is everyone?”_

“Some people are living in what still stands of Lake-Town, but most of the survivors are building homes here, on the edge of the lake.”

_“Can I go and see them?”_

“Maybe when you’re a little stronger.”

_“I think I’m going to sleep now.”_

“Okay, you sleep. I’ll be here for you.”

Sigrid sat back and fell asleep. Tilda left the room and sat down at the scavenged table, tracing meaningless patterns into the worn wood.

After everyone regrouped on the lakeshore, make-shift buildings were constructed using what washed ashore, and was later salvaged from the broken portions of Lake-Town. Tilda found it amusing that a door from the Master’s home was now their front door. Their house was nothing more than a two room shack, but she didn’t mind. Everyone came together to build the new homes, even the Dwarves, which were a boon with their burly strength.

 **

_Bofur would laugh, “Helping ye build a house is nothin’. Try being in a mine all day swinging a hammer at a piece of rock that just won’t give up. That’s tiring.”_

_“Or a hammer at a piece of metal that won’t take the shape.” Fili added with a sigh._

_“Archery is pretty tiring,” Kili said from his little chair._

_“Oh yeah, archery is so tiring. Posing an’ firing an arrow at a wee target. I’m exhausted thinking about it.” Bofur teased, good-naturedly, adding in his own, comical, archery stance._

_“No, I’d been learning from the local hunters. It’s not about standing still. You fire while moving to be the most effective.”_

_“But your quiver is on your back,” Tauriel said. “Isn’t that ineffective?”_

_“I hold the arrows in my hand.”_

_Tauriel made an “hmm” noise._

 **

Tauriel’s little “hmm” noise came from the doorway as she pushed in, carrying a large basket.

“Traders came back, and there’s not much, but we have a good ration of food.” She set the basket on the table and smoothed down Tilda’s hair.

“How is she?”

“Asleep again. She’s still forgetting recent things. She remembers the past, but not the now.” Tilda sighed, pulling the basket over, looking through the contents.

“Short term memory loss can come with a head injury. It will clear up.”

“I hope so. I don’t know how much longer I can keep repeating that da is dead.”

Tilda voice cracked and Tauriel rubbed the girl’s back.

“He’s gone, but he’ll never be forgotten.”

“I know.”

“It is hard, losing a loved one, but time allows all wounds to heal.”

“Does it?”

“It does.”

Tilda started pulling out the rations. Root vegetables, salt pork, wheat, and rice.

“Nothing spectacular.”

“No, but enough to get by.”

Tilda sighed.

Tauriel ran her fingers through Tilda’s hair.

“Tauriel,” Tilda rubbed her face and turned to face the Elf. “Thank you for staying. You didn’t have to.”

“You’re welcome. You all needed help in many ways.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilda and Sigrid invent something and the Dwarves leave.

_15 October TA 2941_

 

“Sigrid.” Tilda tapped the sleeping sister on the leg to wake her up. “I brought you breakfast.”

Sigrid groaned and shifted, slowly sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Tilda was holding a plate with hot rolls and fresh eggs. Fumbling, Sigrid found the pencil and cramped paper they’d been using to communicate.

 _“Good morning!”_ She accompanied the note with a cheerful spread of her hands and a smile.

“I brought you breakfast. Someone’s chicken started laying and they shared with everyone.”

Tilda put the tray down and climbed onto the bed to sit at Sigrid’s feet.

 _“I remember!”_ Sigrid passed her the note with a tap to the side of her head.

“You do! You remember the last few weeks?”

_“I remember you helping me a lot, and I remember da is dead, and the Dwarves are still here.”_

“I should go tell Oin!”

Tilda started to get off the bed when Sigrid stopped her and made a gesture towards herself.

“You want me to stay?”

Sigrid nodded. Tilda smiled and readjusted herself on the bed as her sister ate. The elder waved her fork at her food then pointed at Tilda.

“I already ate.” Tilda waved her off.

Sigrid, mid-chew, made a little enthusiastic noise and snatched the paper, replacing fork with pencil.

_“Sign language!”_

“Sign language? Like we should make one?”

Sigrid made an “exactly” gesture.

“It would be easier,” Tilda bit her lip. “Okay! Then you can sign to me and I can speak for you, at least until your voice comes back!”

 

_18 October TA 2941_

 

A raven landed on the eaves of the Dwarves’ house before dawn. Fili let the bird in and they all listened to its message.

“I’m not going,” Oin said stubbornly. “There’s too many sick and injured to abandon my post. I’ll join you in a few weeks.”

“Uncle might forfeit your part of the treasure,” Fili said.

“He won’t. There’s a written agreement and I know many good Dwarves who can argue their way out of a cave-in. They’ll help me. And stop calling him “uncle,” lad, he’s your King now.”

Oin walked off to prepare for the day’s visits, muttering to himself something about youth and not understanding royalty and their place.

“How can he mutter about us not understanding royalty? We _are_ royalty.” Kili whispered with a laugh. “Anyway, I don’t think I can walk there just yet. I still fall going around town.”

“Ye have a point. Fili hasta go, on accounting he’s an able-bodied Heir, and first-born.” Bofur laughed through his morning pipe, “and I’m stayin’ because I feel like I need to be here, rather than there. Not to mention, I can look after the wee one.” He fluffed Kili’s hair.

“Same goes for you, Bofur. If you do not heed his call, you may not get paid.”

“I can make it back in the mines soon as they’re open.”

“We’ll see what he says.”

The raven flew back in the growing morning.

Fili prepared to leave after breakfast, gathering what little he had, and stowing what weapons he could carry. His leaving wasn’t so much a ceremony, as his brethren received, but the shaking of hands and the kissing of cheeks and countless “thank you” and “you’re welcome.” He paid a visit to Sigrid, since she wasn’t able to come see him off. After lunch, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on in, italics means sign language.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I haven't watched the third Hobbit movie. All geography and imagery is based on what is in my own head.

_20 October TA 2941_

 

The effect of the Long Lake, and the surrounding hills and mountains always amazed Sigrid. In mid-October, the surrounding regions were getting dustings of snow already, but in the lake valley, everything remained dry, though cold. More people started staying in, and only the bravest fishermen went onto the lake to find a catch. The people who went back to Lake-Town broke lake ice off the piers every morning, and dropped nets and hooks in for their day’s catch.

Sigrid sighed wearily.

_“I want to go out.”_ She signed.

“We could go walk around town. I think it looks great!” Tilda suggested, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed.

_“Good.”_

Tilda hopped down and helped Sigrid get up. Oin judged her injuries healed, but cautioned her to move slowly, until she regained her strength. Tilda had helped her walk through the house, and outside a little, but never very far.

“Think you’ll be alright?” Tilda asked, handing Sigrid a cloak and gloves.

_“I’ll be fine,”_ she signed before wrapping the cloak around herself with a dramatic swish.

Tilda grinned.

“I’m taking Sigrid out.” Tilda announced to Tauriel, who looked up from where she sat fletching arrows in a decidedly Dwarvish style.

“Stay warm.”

Sigrid left first, taking her time, enjoying the small freedom from the house. She looked around, seeing the ruins of Lake-Town, and the trees that usually surrounded the lake felled to help rebuild. She even let herself revel in the stale winter-scent of cold mud and icy lake water. Tilda closed the door and took her sister’s hand, their breath coming in little white clouds of steam.

Arm-in-arm they toured the town, enjoying one another’s company, and being greeted by everyone they passed. Many people offered their condolences to Sigrid, and many were happy she was out and looking well.

"They're doing what they can without a leader."

_"A leader? Why do we need a leader? Aren't we doing fine without one? Do we really need another Master?"_

Tilda snickered behind her hand. The sign Sigrid used for "Master" was an incredibly rude gesture. Bard would have boxed their ears.

On her sister’s request, Tilda led Sigrid to their father’s grave, next to the graves of the others lost in the attack on Lake-Town. The mason of the town was sitting with hammer and chisel among the dead, carving headstones. He somberly greeted the girls, and left them alone with the graves.

Sigrid told herself she’d be strong, but she broke down and sat in the dirt next to the headstone, and cried. Tilda gave her time. She’d cried her fill, and said goodbye.

Still crusty-eyed, she came back to give her sister a hug.

_“Let’s go home.”_

**

Tilda walked her sister home in relative silence. Only the crunching of frost under shoes and the ambient sound of a town and a lake filled the air. Sigrid said nothing to Tauriel. Once in her room, she stripped off her cold-weather clothes, crawled into bed, and rolled over. Tilda sighed, confused and hurt, and left again.

_“The people here can do much better.”_ Sigrid thought to herself. She heard Tilda leave and squeezed her eyes shut.

“How are you feeling?” Tauriel caught her when she left their room.

“I’m fine. She’s asleep, I think. I’m going back out.”

Tauriel nodded and Tilda left once more.

She spent her time doing what she usually did, exploring and looking. Today she looked for Bain, her brother with a wandering heart. Since their father’s death, Bain became a ghost, only appearing when it seemed to suit him. The Dwarves tried to be the father figure he needed, but nothing seemed to help. Fili and Kili taught him sword work, Oin taught him field medicine, and Bofur gave him a slim knife he could use to carve.

Before the disastrous arrival of the Dwarves, Bain and Bard worked together often. Bain learned a life off the beaten path of good and lawfulness. He and their father would leave for days or a week at a time, sometimes several weeks, and reappear tired, dirty, and wealthier than before. Bard always shared his take, and quickly returned to working as a bargeman. Bain worked the barges with him, ferrying used wine barrels across the lake to the depot where they were shipped downriver to Rhûn. Bain learned the lake well, but didn’t take to ferrying cargo and passengers.

Of the three children, Bain took Bard’s death the hardest.

Tilda sat by the south road, watching as the sunlight faded – way too early, she privately lamented. Hungry and tired, she gave up her vigil and turned home, hugging herself in the oncoming chill. She thought of the Dwarves of Erebor and how warm they were burrowed deep in the heart of the mountain.

When she opened the front door of her home, she stopped. Seated around the table were the two usual adults: Tauriel and Kili. But there were a number of other faces with them. Among them Old Bjorn, and Bofur, both engaged in a raucous conversation she couldn’t understand half of and laughing so hard she feared the house would collapse.

“Tilda! Fetch your sister! We have much to discuss!” Kili said with a mischievous grin.

“Uh, okay.”

Tilda, still confused about the surprise evening gathering, went into the room shared by the children. Sigrid was already sitting up, looking cranky, and rubbing her eyes.

_“I tried to sleep, but then everyone came over and it sounds like a million Oliphaunts out there.”_ Sigrid signed.

“Sorry. They want you, or us, to join them. I think they’re up to something.” Tilda climbed onto the bed.

_“I’m sorry about earlier, Til. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”_

“It’s okay!” Tilda’s smile was genuine. “Everyone has off days.”

_“Alright.”_ Sigrid crushed her sister in a hug. _“They’re planning something, eh? Could end badly. Likely will if the Dwarves are involved.”_

“They are. At least this time the dragon is dead.”

The girls laughed and changed their clothes. Sigrid brushed and braided their hair, much to Tilda’s squirming and whining, and they emerged to be greeted with the same noise, as well as supper.

Sigrid and Tilda squeezed in next to Kili, who gave both of them a one-armed hug that felt so much like their father’s that Tilda nearly cried. One of the townsfolk, Mrs. Olafsdottir, set plates of meat, carrots, and potatoes before them with a mug of water, and demanded they eat.

“We need to go to that mountain and demand our share of the treasure. It’s the only way to make it through the winter. Without the Dwarves gold, what do we have?” Old Bjorn slapped the table for emphasis.

“Uncle Thorin will give you the treasure, he is a Dwarf of his word!” Kili countered. “He may even offer you shelter for the winter!”

“I doubt that. Men like Thorin think only of themselves.”

“I can send a request to the King of the Greenwood for aid but I cannot promise anything from him. Lord Thranduil thinks only of himself, and his people. Anyone or anything outside his borders that is not a threat is no matter to him.” Tauriel offered, sounding slightly defeated.

Sigrid tapped Tilda on the shoulder before tapping the table.

“It can’t hurt to send a request. We need everything we can get, and what about the other Elf? The one who helped save us from the Orc attack.” Tilda quickly translated.

“That’s in one. The other villages can’t support us and themselves for long, and I doubt anyone here wants to go elsewhere. Esgaroth and Lake-Town are our homes.” Old Bjorn added, smiling at the youth.

“Legolas is the Elf,” Tauriel said, “and I have not heard from him since our fight in your house.”

“Send a message to the Forest Realm – send Bain if you need someone to carry a message – and send an envoy to that cursed mountain.” Tilda winced as she translated Sigrid’s sharp words.

“Erebor,” Kili said smartly. “The mountain is called Erebor, and I will go to the mountain. As a Prince, it’s the least I could do to aid my saviors.”

_“Erebor. Sorry.”_ Sigrid signed to herself.

“Where Kili goes, I go. We Dwarves have ta stay together.” Bofur said.

“I suppose I will go as a representative of the town,” Old Bjorn stretched.

A murmur of approval went through the assembled.

“Tauriel, are you going to the Greenwood? Or will you stay here.” Tilda asked.

“If I go, I risk the wrath of the King, and without the Prince, that risk is doubled. However, a message may be ignored. If I do go, I will come back to you, I promise.”

Tilda squirmed, “Don’t make false promises.” She got up abruptly.

_"Da made a lot of empty promises over the years."_ Sigrid explained to Tauriel. _"Starting with that our mother will be okay."_

**

Sigrid and Tilda retired to their room shortly after Tilda’s fit. They laid together in the dark room, lit only by candlelight, and Sigrid told Tilda stories. Old legends and myths, as well as more banal stories. The ones Tilda loved most, and fell asleep after, were the ones closest to the both of them: stories about their mother.

The people around the table didn’t leave until midnight, only Kili and Old Bjorn staying. They fed the fire, drank hot tea, and talked. Between them sat hastily stacked sheets of paper, a quill, and inkwell. On the paper was written a plan.

Long before Sigrid felt well enough to leave, and indeed before she had even awakened, the people who assumed charge in the vacuum left by the Master’s death – primarily Bard, Tauriel, and Kili – realized that the settlement on the shore of the Long Lake was not sustainable. Something would have to be done, aid sought from elsewhere if the Dwarves refused to pay (Bard knew the Dwarves would be greedy and keep all the gold for themselves) and the town possibly relocated. While Sigrid slept and Tilda watched over her, a journey to Dale was made, and there was a proposal to rebuild the old trading hub to its former glory, or as close to it as possible. Old Bjorn, who always claimed he grew up in Dale, supported this plan, and thusly was accepted into the impromptu council who guided and advised the people.

Those who didn’t like taking advice and orders from an old man, a Dwarf, an Elf, and a smuggler – either all of them or one of them – left. Some went back to the lake, and others farther afield. Sitting on the table between the three was the culmination of scheming and planning, talking and listening to what the people said. However, there was another power vacuum. The people still didn’t like the idea of two outsiders in control, along with an old man, and to this end, Tauriel had another idea. Bard wasn’t coming back from the dead, but there were still direct descendants of the man who tried with all his might to save Dale, and whom Bard had redeemed by finally putting an arrow in the beast’s hide.

Bain came back at an hour so late, the sky had begun to lighten in the east. He shucked off his boots and pack and crept into the room he shared with his sisters. Tauriel noted his arrival but said nothing. Changing as quietly as he could, he added himself to the exhausted tangle of limbs on the bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bain obviously follows in his father's footsteps.

_21 October TA 2941_

Autumn mornings dawned cool with a layer of thick fog roiling on the lake. This fog drifted shoreward and put out exploratory tendrils through the streets and alleys of the refugee town on its shore. Tilda adored the fog and thought of it as a beast in its own way, looking for the lost souls and early risers. She extricated herself from the bed and slipped out of the room. She breathed life into the fire in the stove and wondered if Elves actually slept or if they turned to porcelain. Tauriel lie on her own small mattress behind a curtained off corner – she insisted the children have the room – looking so perfect, like an expensive Gondorian doll, even in sleep. Tilda watched her, the Elf’s chest barely rising. She wondered if they even needed sleep or food, and breathing and food and drink was all a show.

Tilda found the last of the bacon ration and put it into the cold pan on the stovetop. She fished out the bread and cut thick slices. Tauriel easily roused and joined her at the cold table.

“I know this has to be hard for you, and I’m very proud of you. You’re being so bra-” Tauriel was cut off by a shriek by Sigrid.

Both looked at each other and rushed to the room. Sigrid stood almost on tip toes against the wall, staring wide-eyed at a sack of parsnips and other winter vegetables, a scattering of gold pieces, and a few eggs.

 _“_ _Where did you get that?!_ _”_ She signed, angry and demanding.

“I bought them!” Bain said.

 _“_ _Liar. Where did you steal those from?_ _”_

“Sigrid, I bought them. I promise. I took da’s cache before we left town. I took it all. From all his hiding places, and I used the money da stashed to buy food.” Bain defended himself, sounding hurt by the accusations.

 _“_ _I don_ _’_ _t believe you. You_ _’_ _re just like him.  A smuggler. A liar and a thief._ _”_

“Then da raised me right,” Bain countered. Sigrid deflated and drooped off the wall.

“He taught me how to lie, and cheat, and smuggle, and steal. He taught me how to cache things for later, and he taught me all of his hiding places. He told me to go through town before the dragon came, and pull up every hidden box and take all the money. Before he died, he told me to keep you safe and make sure you two thrived. If that means I have to be gone for days to buy more food, then so be it. We need the supplies, and look at you two, you’re starving. Tilda thinks of nothing but you, Sigrid, and you’re still sick. You wince and walk with a limp, and headaches put you in bed more often than not.

“If I need to lie, cheat, and steal to keep you two well, then it’s what I have to do.” Bain puffed up his chest and stuck out his chin.

“So did you steal it?” Tilda asked from the door.

Sigrid noticed her sister and came over to hug her.

“Only the one thing you didn’t see,” Bain said meekly.

 _“_ _Ah ha!_ _”_

“And it wasn’t quite stealing, it was more of the shop keep feeling bad for me.”

Bain pulled a thing from the bottom of the bag, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He easily cut away the twine and unwrapped the paper to reveal various lumps of meat.

“It’s the ends of cuts. He was going to throw them to the pigs, but he gave them to me instead. And the eggs in this bag are for eating. I have more being kept warm to hatch so the town will have fresh chicken and eggs.”

“Thank you, Bain.” Tilda took the eggs and wrapped meat and set them on the table.

Bain came to sit at the table with her while she tended the bacon and cracked the eggs into the pan. Tauriel caught Sigrid in the room.

“Are you okay?” Tauriel asked. Sigrid nodded. “Last night it was decided that Old Bjorn would go with the Dwarves to Erebor as a representative, but I was thinking that instead of an old man, how about you and your sister go.”

 _“_ _Us?_ _”_

“Yes. You are direct descendants of Girion, who first defended Dale. Everyone in town respects and honors the line of Girion. Royalty also respects royalty. The Dwarvish King is more likely to listen to a Lord, rather than a common old man, regardless of age.”

Sigrid grinned.

 _“_ _I have to talk to Tilda._ _”_

“Of course,” Tauriel smiled and let Sigrid leave.

Tilda was spooning eggs and bacon onto plates when Sigrid came up, excited. As they ate, the sisters discussed what Tauriel told Sigrid, their hands flashing too quickly to be understood by anyone else. Tilda looked between her sister and Tauriel.

“We’d be honored to go.”

 **

The air of excitement that grew since breakfast clung tangibly to the small house. When Kili and Old Bjorn arrived, they too found themselves getting both excited and nervous for what could happen. During the day, with more sleep and less alcohol, they sat together and finalized the plans. Three parties would leave Esgaroth: the party bound for Erebor, a small group of traders going south looking for supplies, and Tauriel would follow Legolas’ path in search of him. Bain fidgeted in his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Tauriel asked.

“I don’t have anything to do.” Bain said. “Sigrid and Tilda get to go to Erebor, and you’re leaving, and that leaves me.”

“I want you to go south, with the trading party.”

“What?”

“You’ve clearly got the skills needed in your blood, and you have connections, yes?”

Bain nodded.

“Then go south, and help out. You can guide them along the route.”

Bain grinned, “Yes!”

Their conversation was broken by Kili affecting a stuffy court voice, and a bad impression of his uncle.

“Presenting Sigrid Bardsdottir, Lady of Esgaroth, and her sister Tilda Bardsdottir, the Lady’s Voice.”

Sigrid made a face and a gesture.

“She insists on being called _Lord_.” Tilda translated.

“My apologies. Sigrid Bardsdottir, _Lord_ of Esgaroth, and Tilda Bardsdottir, the Lord’s Voice.”

Sigrid nodded regally.

** 

Bain slept little during the night, despite feeling exhausted from the day. He talked and planned with the people going south, two legitimate traders and others who volunteered to help. They would carry what was of value, including the teeth and hide of the dragon that washed ashore. If that plan didn’t work, they would offer credit. Supplies now, and they would pay later when the Dwarves gave them their share. Now he sat outside, wrapped in a heavy cloak, watching the stars dance above. The mountain shone in the distance and he cursed it and thought that perhaps the Dwarves were wiser than men. When their home was destroyed by a dragon, they scattered and went far afield. When the same dragon destroy the men’s homes, they just crawled from the lake, and settled next door.

He shivered and went back inside, sitting by the stove to warm up and then crawling into bed for a few hours of sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made!

_22 October TA 2941_

Sigrid was awake before anyone. She extricated herself carefully and set to dressing herself. Her ribs and shoulder continued to ache, more so as she wrapped her braids into a tight bun. She left the room and fed the fire in the stove. She sat at the table and fidgeted with her fingers nervously. Tauriel was absent, as was her hip quiver and bow.

Tilda woke with the smell of fresh fire. She covered Bain with the remaining blanket and went out to see her sister. Sigrid signed her a cheerful “good morning!”

“Are you nervous?” Tilda asked, sitting near Sigrid, on the other side of the stove.

_“_ _No, I_ _’_ _m fine. Kind of excited, actually._ _”_ Sigrid signed.

“Don’t lie. I can see it in your face.”

_“_ _Okay, maybe a little nervous._ _”_

Tilda raised an eyebrow.

“What if this doesn’t work? I mean, what if all this is fruitless.”

_“_ _Don_ _’_ _t say things like that! Not in the shade of that cursed mountain._ _”_ Sigrid paused, and rolled her eyes, _“_ _Erebor. I mean Erebor. Anyway, everything will be fine, and no matter what happens, we_ _’_ _ll have each other._ _”_

Tilda nodded, “You’re right.”

_“_ _Go on and get dressed._ _”_ Sigrid shooed her sister from the table. Tilda smiled and went back to the room.

Tilda was the last one to leave the room dressed, hair combed as much as she could get the comb through, and feeling ready for the journey ahead. She joined Sigrid and Bain for a simple breakfast. Bain kept wringing his hands, their father’s gesture of worry.

“Where is Tauriel?” Bain asked.

_“_ _Must be preparing with Kili._ _”_ Sigrid signed and giggled.

Bain chuckled. “They’ve been getting so very close lately.”

“Why is that funny?” Tilda whined, “Them getting close is a good thing, right?”

The two older siblings laughed more.

_“_ _I_ _’_ _ll tell you when you_ _’_ _re older._ _”_ Sigrid signed. Tilda pouted.

Old Bjorn had the courtesy to knock before he entered.

“Good, you’re all here and awake. Finish your breakfast and come quickly. Everyone is waiting for you in the square.” He smiled warmly at the youths and ducked back out.

“All the great adventure stories happen in spring or summer. Why does ours have to happen in autumn?” Tilda shivered at the cold air that wafted in after Old Bjorn.

** 

More people than Sigrid expected were waiting in the town square to see them off. Tauriel waited by a horse that stamped and danced for the off. She privately decided she would try to track Legolas and tell him what happened. With Legolas’ help, she stood a chance of not incurring the King’s wrath.

Bain hugged his sisters and joined with the caravan going south. About six people travelled with him. They would go first to a small town on the west bank of the river, called not-so-creatively, Riverside. From Riverside, they would decide which direction would be better to travel: cross the river and make for Rhûn, where the dragon hide and teeth could be bartered for goods among the so-called “wild men” of the desert lands beyond, or continue south to the series of small towns before reaching the neutral lands near the borders of Gondor.

Either way, the caravan would be out for a long time. And no one said it aloud, but hope was minimal.

Sigrid and Tilda were brought by Old Bjorn to where the two dwarves waited.

“Are we going up river by boat?” Tilda asked.

“Until the rapids and falls, then we continue on foot to Dale.” Kili said. “That’s the route the Company traveled, though they made directly for the mountain.”

The sisters returned to Bain and hugged him hard.

“She says be good out there. I say good luck.” Tilda said, tears running down her cheeks.

“You too. Best of luck bartering with a stubborn Dwarf.” Bain flicked Tilda’s braid, and she slapped his arm. He laughed at the ritual and went back to the caravan.

“It’d be so much easier with da.” He said under his breath.

 **

Tauriel came to them individually and hugged them all. There wasn’t much ceremony or pomp on their departure. Someone plucked an old tune on a lute.

“Now we leave on our quests and journeys. In this time of hardship, it’s easy to look on the black side of things, but I urge you to keep a light heart and mind.” Tilda translated for Sigrid, her little voice carrying in the town square. “We’ll return to you for a brighter future, and easier spring.”

There were a few chuckles, applause here and there, but mostly silence.

The caravan left first, the cart wheels squeaking. The men and dwarves loaded into a boat with light supplies on the lake shore. Old Bjorn took up the pole and pushed them into deeper water. Kili took up the oars and rowed them towards the river, and the ruined town beyond. Townsfolk gathered to see both groups off, waving and shouting well wishes and luck. Tauriel left in silence on her own.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter heaps of extras as the children depart for their respective travels.

_22 October TA 2941_

Bain walked with the caravan southward. They kept to the lakeshore and eventually the riverbank, but the unsettling shadow of the forest lurked off to their right. The wind that blew off the lake buffeted them, the cold seeping in through the layers of wool and cloth to their bones. The air was tense and for a long time, they seldom spoke. Everything felt ominous and left an uneasy feeling. Bain carried the repurposed blacksmiths hammer, gripping it tightly, as if expecting something to come from the skeletons of farmhouses they passed. The group followed the old track, Bain leading them, turning to skirt the far off ridges along the southwestern flank of the lake.

Eventually, Erebor sank below the horizon behind them and tensions eased.

“Long ago, Dale was the major town in this area,” one of the merchants, Johan, said to break the silence. “The people grew crops for the Dwarves, and thus received huge amounts of gold, which they spent at Lake-Town for the luxury of fresh fish and ice. Our seamstresses were once the pride of the region, producing garments of unrivaled quality. Of course, the merchants went far afield for the exotic fabrics the people of Dale craved. Our old trading networks reached as far as Gondor and even the Blue Mountains in the west. Rumor has it they even traded with the little folk of the Shire. And rumor also has it that some merchants of Lake-Town traded with the wild men of the Harad in the far south. Beastly, uncultured creatures who would take your hand for stealing or your eye for looking at another man’s wife.”

“Come now, I met Haradrim when I was last out this way and they were exceedingly lovely people. The men of Gondor were more beastly than the men of the Harad.” Adisla, another much younger merchant countered. “True, they have ways that are strange to our own, but they’re wonderful people and wouldn’t take a hand for stealing or an eye for gaping; they’d much sooner talk things out and work out repayment for the item stolen than take a person’s limb.”

“I’ve met many Haradrim when working with my Da, and they’ve all been very nice. Very willing to haggle for a good price.” Bain added. “Don’t judge people on hear-tell.”

Bain was about to continue when he was interrupted by a grating, un-earthly howl that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Everyone froze and drew what weapons they carried, looking out for the source of the sound. The horses shifted uneasily and flattened their ears.

“What the hell is that?” Johan’s voice quavered.

“Probably just a beast of some sort. Maybe a wolf or something.” Bain suggested.

“I don’t know what wolves you’ve come across, but that’s no wolf.”

“Keep your eyes open. We should probably keep moving. No use standing here, waiting for the beast to show.”

“Maybe it’s an Orc pack, come to hunt down the survivors of Lake-Town.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is. What would an Orc pack want with a handful of Men from Lake-Town?”

“You heard them the night the town was destroyed, making a huge ruckus, running through the streets and over people’s roofs.”

“But they were after the Dwarves. I think they wanted Thorin.”

“I wish that cursed Dwarf and his scraggly pack of ingrates had never come to our town. Had they not been so keen on their cursed gold, they wouldn’t have woken the dragon, Lake-Town would still be standing, and the plot would have gone off without a hitch.”

“To be fair, the Master is still dead, so that part succeeded with or without the Dwarves.” Adisla said.

“I heard,” a fourth voice, Kolbrandr, chimed in, “their gold has the power to control minds, to turn people into the living dead. They can control you from the safety of Erebor while you do their dirty work.”

“Oh that’s just an old kids story rehashed,” Bain shot him a look, “if you want to create a tall tale, at least be original.”

The howl-scream sounded again, shocking them all into watchful silence.

It was closer than before, somewhere in the nearby hills.

“Bain, what do we do?” Kolbrandr sounded like he was going to cry.

“The only thing we can do: keep going.” Bain chewed his lip, looking around but seeing nothing.

He led them once more in a tense silence, the only sound being the crunch of gravel under their shoes and the shift and clink of packs and weapons.

“First thing we need to get is proper weapons.” Adisla said, shaking her sharpened boat hook.

“I hope your sisters are having a better time than we are.” Johan muttered.

Something black and unctuous erupted from a ridge and shrieked as it flew over their heads, flying hard and fast to the south. The retreating form quickly disappeared.

“What in the world was that?”

“I don’t know. But it’s gone. I bet you that was our screamer though.” Bain relaxed. “We should hurry, though, we are targets out here and that… thing might still be out there somewhere.”

“You’re so much like you Da, it’s surprising sometimes.” Adisla said affectionately. Bain smiled.

“Thank you. I hope he’s looking down and pleased with his children.”

“He is, I know he is.”

 

_22 October TA 2941_

Despite being born on and around the water, Sigrid still felt queasy and nervous in boats. As their boat rocked and shifted on the lake, Sigrid gripped the sides and kept her eyes solidly locked on the horizon. Old Bjorn moved to the bow and pushed away large pieces of ice with his pole. Kili kept close to the shore, not wanting to approach the skeleton of the town, as if it still stood cursed by a dragon. Cold winds whipped their faces and fog curled around their boat. With an uneasy voice, Bofur sang an old forge song, keeping time with the constant _slap, slap_ of the oars. When Kili tired, the two Dwarves traded places.

After what felt like hours, they turned and entered the mouth of the river that led towards the escarpment that hid the ruins of Dale.

Sometime in the past, the previous inhabitants had carved statues of the kings of old and set them at the mouth of the river. Perhaps to stand watch, or to ward off evil, but as they passed the crumbling monoliths, Sigrid shivered hard, a bad feeling racing up her spine. Of course Tilda looked at them with fascination. She wanted to get out and touch them, find out who these people – men and Dwarves alike – were and know their histories. Kili and Old Bjorn simply kept their eyes forward, working together to navigate the river channel. Old men carved in stone deserved their peace.

Eventually they came to a series of rapids and waterfalls where the river churned over the broken wall of the escarpment into the lake valley. Here they found the Dwarven boat and the prints of booted feet following a portage path up and over. Old Bjorn and Sigrid, grateful for the solid ground beneath her feet, pulled the boat onto the shore and they all followed the trail of the Company alongside the swirling rapids. Kili laughed to himself as he remembered the rapids during their flight from the Elven King’s halls.

 ***

“Old Bjorn,” Tilda asked as Sigrid pinned her skirts up so they wouldn’t get dirty on the trail, “have you ever been to Erebor?”

“No, I’ve stayed in Dale and Lake-Town my entire life. I was a farmer in the valley, and when the dragon came, I left with the refugees and became a fisherman.” Old Bjorn shook his head and looked up at the mountain that seemed to stretch itself up to loom over them.

Sigrid dubbed the pinning a success with a little “ah ha!” sound. With the skirts of the girls pinned, they continued to climb the slippery rocks towards the crest of the ridge.

“The men who did go into Erebor came out with the most ridiculous stories. The mountain being hollow from its peak to its roots, rooms built into and from the walls, walkways of drops so precipitous that a missed step meant you’ll eventually land in the mines that snake through the earth below.”

Kili scoffed, “tall tales. Uncle told us that the mountain is a web-work of tunnels and rooms, that there’s a whole city under there, and some of the rocks are carved and polished so thin that they may as well be glass.”

_“All very impressive.”_

“Kili, lad, why did you come on your uncle’s quest?” Old Bjorn asked.

“Because my brother was going, as well as my Uncle. I wanted to prove my worth. In royalty, the second child is called the ‘spare to the heir’ and we’re not expected to do as much, or be as brilliant,” Kili sounded upset. “I wanted to say that I’m just as good as my brother, that I’m worth something, and travelling across the lands sounds much better than being on guard duty for caravans in the Ered Luin.”

They helped one another up the last few feet, and emerged on the ridge over-looking Erebor and the skeleton of Dale with its fallen stonework littering the valley floor. Everyone kept silent in reverence of the dead. There, overlooking the valley, with the Dwarves and their gold they greedily kept from the refugees so close, they stopped to eat a meager lunch.

With the sun slipping to the horizon, the party picked their way through the ruins of Dale, footfalls echoing back to them.

 _“Should we send a message announcing our arrival?”_ Sigrid asked with Tilda translating.

“Unless you have a raven under those skirts, I don’t see how. We should approach the gates tomorrow, whomever guards the gates will alert the rest that the two final Dwarves have arrived.” Bofur said.

They camped in what used to be a family’s home, building a fire against a wall. Kili was glad to sit, the long walk aggravating his knee injury. Old Bjorn brewed him a tea Oin gave to the party, and gave it to Kili, who gratefully accepted the medicinal drink. Bjorn offered some to Sigrid, who declined. She felt weary from travel, but wasn’t in pain.

In the fading light, Sigrid took a torch and wandered through the broken cobbled streets. Tilda anxiously followed her, but her sister was faster.

In the decades of abandoned history, time and nature struggled to reclaim Dale. Tilda would touch brickwork and find it crumbling under her fingertips, and while nothing grew in the plain of Smaug’s ruin, small saplings and green things fought back the oppressive feeling of ruin and death that permeated the town. Everywhere Tilda went, following the light thrown from her sister’s torch, she felt it: the oppression of life, of growing things being held back, hopeful and waiting for the release from the tyranny of the dragon. She squatted by a swath of Kingsfoil, it’s glossy leaves and small flowers stretching for fresh air and sunlight, and to her, what they considered a weed spoke volumes.

_We’re okay. We will overcome. We’ll come back, you’ll see. We can grow in the shadow of the mountain, and so can you._

Tilda smiled at the plant, and looked up, finding Sigrid’s torchlight gone. She’d gone further, or up into a building or a tower. She was strong, and didn’t need her little sister tagging along, bothering her, so Tilda stayed and stroked the leaves of the Kingsfoil.

When Sigrid returned, she carried something small clutched to her chest. When she saw her sister, she showed her a small doll with dark skin and a black dot on her forehead. The doll was intact, save some singe marks around the hem of her skirts and veil.

_“They were in such a rush a child forgot her doll.”_

They looked at the doll for some moments before Sigrid propped it up against the wall. Hand-in-hand they walked back to the camp, being watched by something grateful.

At the camp, Old Bjorn and the Dwarves roasted meat over the fire, arguing over preparation and technique. More than once the word “bland” was used to describe Men’s cooking, followed by something in Dwarvish, and riotous laughter. Tilda and Sigrid sat between Old Bjorn and Bofur, and were promptly handed hot meat on a stick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the extras in Bain's party have Old Norse names, like Sigrid and Tilda.
> 
> If you got to see it, I hope you enjoyed the blood moon tonight. It was very pretty in San Diego, but I couldn't watch the whole thing from start to end.


	9. Chapter 9

_22 October TA 2941_

 

The problem of tracking the Prince and his Warg and Orc prey came down to two things: time and landscape. Time was manageable. Tauriel trained with the best trackers in the Greenwood, and could track a rabbit to its warren weeks after its trail had faded. All Elves had some level of magic inborn in them, a gift of Illuvatar. She tapped this tracking sense to follow the trail westward, slightly north of the river, through the greater problem: landscape.

The land northwest of Esgaroth rose sharply in great hills and scarps, with ravines between the ridges. Her horse, a sweet mare with a spotted flank, balked at the sight of the cliffs and Tauriel had to agree. The sudden cliff sides, with their piles of debris at the base, was a formidable sight. She patted the mare on the neck, and spoke words of encouragement into her ear, and let her chose the best path onto the plateau above.

With her tracking skills, she not-so-easily found the trail again once they emerged onto a barren plain with Erebor of her shoulder, and the Greenwood, now sick and twisted, facing her like a challenge. One she accepted.

 

While she rode, she whispered a message for the King’s ears to a beautiful sparrow and set the bird free to deliver the message.

 

_23 October TA 2941_

 

Sigrid woke while it was still dark, and everyone was still asleep, save for Bofur, who took the last watch, and sat close to the fire. He had a knife, and was carving something, and nodded to her over the fire, which burned low but warm. Sigrid marveled at the Dwarven ability to build quality fires. Sigrid warmed her limbs and left the house, looking to the stars. The Zodiac stretched from horizon to horizon, and she identified each of them, one-by-one, taking comfort in their cold glimmer. She wasn’t sure if it was the atmosphere of their surroundings, or intuition, but a deep feeling of foreboding settled in her stomach.

Bofur came out to sit next to her. She sleepily leaned her head on his shoulder, glad for the firm body.

“Don’t go, it will end badly.” She mouthed uselessly in the dark, making squeaks, not words.

Bofur pointed his pipe, what he’d been carving inside, and sighed.

“We’d heard about this place for ages. The unending wealth of bottomless mines. This, this is the source of th’ Arkenstone, th’ rotten rock for which yer town was destroyed, for which kingdoms were founded an’ ruined. I should be elated, and yet, I cannuh shake this fear of what waits inside.”

Bofur’s matter-of-factness bothered Sigrid even more.

They sat watching the sky for some time, the silence punctuated by the puff of a pipe and the crackle of fire. She stood and went back to the camp, lying down next to her sister and wrapping her blanket around the both of them. She wasn’t sure if she slept.

 

Dawn came cool and sunless. The sky was light, but the sun was blocked by the mountains. Even with the shelter of the building and the fire, everyone was cold. Old Bjorn groaned about old joints and warned the younger to never get old as he stoked the fire. Stark shadows flared with the fire, jagged and feral beasts. Sigrid wrapped her arms around her little sister, who snuggled into the fresh warmth. She hadn’t slept well. Being away from home, being cold, and all the elements of a transient and wild life did not suit the little girl.

“Nightmares.” Tilda explained. “I watched both Dale and Lake-Town be destroyed by dragon fire.”

Sigrid held her sister, stroking the top of her head. She would have sung a lullaby, but…

_“We’ll be out and home as soon as we can.”_ Sigrid signed under the blanket.

“I also heard the sound of beasts in armor, marching. It was so loud and cacophonous. I didn’t think it was a dream until I woke up and everyone was still sleeping through the noise.”

_“It was just a dream,”_ Sigrid signed. _“Want to sit up? I’ll comb your hair.”_

Tilda nodded and sat up. Sigrid sat behind her and fixed the blanket around them both. She pulled her comb from her pack and worked to free her sister’s hair of snarls.

“Prince Kili, what is the plan?” Old Bjorn asked the bleary-looking Dwarf.

Sigrid and Tilda snickered. He was obviously not a morning Dwarf.

“Bofur and I go to Erebor and request to see the King. During our audience, we ask for aid.” Kili sounded sure of himself.

“And if Thorin declines?”

“Thorin wouldn’t decline. We are of his company, his kin and blood. He will be glad to see me hale and returning to the mountain.”

“If not, I can have Bombur, he’s the fat one yeah, and I can have him sit on the King until he acquiesces to our demands.” Bofur added with a glint in his eye. Kili looked horrified. Clearly that threat had been used at some point in their journey.

Sigrid tapped Tilda’s should and she translated.

“If they decline, we’ll return with you. Surely seeing the Lord and her Voice will make them think otherwise.”

Tilda giggled at her sister’s use of the titles.

Bofur and Kili shared a glance and nodded.

Kili stood and stretched. “The sun rises, the Gates shine in the morning light. Let us go and meet our Fate.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bain and his companions reach Riverside, and, as it turns out, Bain has a very good friend in town.

_23 October TA 2941_

 

The merchants and horses were not happy to spend a night in the wild, camped like the travelling people alongside the road. Bain wasn’t happy to have made the call, but the delays in travel caused by the creature and the short days forced his hand. Better to sleep in the wild, and have people stand watch, than fumble down a little used track using nothing but torches. Bain thought it was wise, it was what he father would have done, but still, he go dirty looks at breakfast.

“We’ll be at Riverside in no time today. We’ll resupply and go home.” Adisla said with a stretch.

“No, we have to go further, don’t we? There’s villages and towns everywhere that can help us.” Bain protested. “I’ve seen them, I remember where they are.”

“Son, I’m not doubting your knowledge or your memory, but from my experience, this area is kind of a wasteland. All those old farmhouses from yesterday should have been a clue. There’s nothing here.”

“When’s the last time you came this way? Years ago? All due respect, Adisla, but the Master stifled our trade routes. I came this way before the dragon came and there’s people out here, all over the place.”

Johan scoffed, “then where are they? Bain, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and you think this area is inhabited? Before the dragon, your da was the last one to go out for a long time. You stayed home. Are you sure you’re not just trying to be your da?”

“No! I came with him, I swear it.”

“Well if you think we need to go on a death march looking for non-existent trading routes then why are we all coming? Should we put all of our lives and our family’s lives in danger?”

“Fine, after Riverside, you all can go home. Take what you can and leave, but I’ll be going on. Our people need more, and I know where to get it.”

“I’ll send a message for you to the smelly Gondorians or barbaric Haradi. Maybe you’ll be in the desert building their kings yet another massive monument to their ego.”

“Go put your face in a dung heap.” Bain stalked off to cool down on his own.

Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was just the tension of the seemingly tenuous place they were in, maybe it was leftover nerves from yesterday, but they had no right to get indignant over a simple suggestion. They should have listened to him, he knew what he was talking about. His da always told him about what was out here, in the wild beyond Lake-Town and Riverside. He’s seen the settlements with his own eyes! If anything, he should get some respect because he is the son of Bard, the man who would have overthrown the Master.

“Bain?” It was the youth, Kolbrandr, who had to be around Bain’s age, maybe a little older. “Adisla says they’re ready to move when you are.”

Bain wiped his eyes, wet with tears, and nodded.

“Be right there.”

Kolbrandr left and Bain composed himself before returning to the company. No apologies were made. He was simply handed the lead rope for a horse.

*** 

Riverside came into view around noon. The town was small, with a newly built palisade around the sides that didn’t face the river. Over the wooden wall he could see the bell tower and the stone tiled roofs of the buildings. They passed a shepherd and the flock, the girl whistling at a dog that easily pushed the bleating animals away from the road. At the wooden gates, they stated who they were and their business and were let in by a gatekeeper that seemed sorry he had to do his job.

“Right heap of bandits about lately. Better than arming the people, make it harder for the brigands to get in and raid.”

The innkeeper was more than happy to rent them all rooms, and cut them a discount. She explained that few people travelled lately, and those who did reported an uneasy feeling on the road. Like an oncoming storm or a shadow, and that no one uses the forest roads anymore. As rumor of survivors from Lake-Town spread, the tavern where they ate lunch swelled to capacity, and the keep had to call in extra help. Everyone wanted to hear what had happened: the dragon, the destruction, the Dwarves. Every detail was absorbed and Johan found himself surrounded by men and women as he retold his bravery that night.

Bain kept his head down and escaped the ruckus. He knew which house he wanted: a row home with pleasant windows and a green door. He also knew the occupants would be home to answer when he knocked three times. A girl around his age answered, and immediately smiled radiantly. She threw herself at him, and he caught her in a grand hug, burying his face in her dark hair. He kissed her hand softly at smiled at her.

“Hilde,” he sighed happily.

“Bain,” she said affectionately. “Are you here to see me or my father?”

“If I say both, will you be angry?”

She laughed melodiously. “I will be glad you included me. Come in, please.”

The girl pulled Bard inside and shut the door after him, and quickly disappeared into the house.

“Bain, what brings you here today?” A man, Hilde’s father, Brun, asked. Where his daughter was tall and wiry, Brun was short and broad.

“Brun, good to see you. Odd to see me alone?” Bain stuck out his hand to shake the older man’s hand.

“A little odd. Tell me about it.” Brun guided the boy to sit at the kitchen table while Hilde busied herself setting the places and serving hot stew in bowls with fresh bread.

“There has been a family tragedy.” Bain carefully controlled his voice.

“Tell me son.”

Bain took a deep breathe, exhaled, and recounted the events of the Dwarves, the dragon, and the loss of his father. Brun watched with sympathetic eyes, and Hilde looked like she wanted to cry with Bain. While he talked, he traced the intricately carved patterns that ringed the edge of the handsome blond wood table.

“We renamed the town Esgaroth, and for now, we live on the lake shore, but I don’t know if we’ll make it through the winter. I know the adults want to eventually rebuild on the lake, but what’s the use if we all starve!”

“Your people are resilient, Bain. You underestimate the toughness of your own kin. The Master choked out some of the independent spirit, but with people like you and your sisters, they’ll have more than enough motivation. Still, I will see what I can do to help you.”

“I think most of the party will return to Esgaroth, but I want to go farther, to call for more aid.”

Brun shifted uncomfortably and took another bite of the stew.

“That is a fool’s errand, Bain. I’ve known you since you were little, so I won’t mince words. There’s something going on out there. Families who have raised crops or sheep on the land have left for better pastures, for Gondor and beyond. The closer you get to the forest, the more the land is poisoned. Not to mention the thieves and bandits that run wild. You noticed the wall? Now they’re talking of putting archers up at night.”

“If you could do what you can, I would be eternally grateful, Brun.”

“For the son of Bard? Anything.”

Hilde’s eyes lit up, “then can Bain stay tonight, please daddy?”

Brun chewed his lip, “of course, but to bed early. He’s had a rough time, and you have an early day tomorrow.”

“Early day?” Bain asked, venturing a bite of the stew, and finding it delicious.

“Oh yes, our little Hildegard here has been accepted as an apprentice to the carpenter. The patterns you’ve been tracing are her practice carvings.”

“Really? Wow! That’s fantastic, Hilde! Congratulations.”

“Thanks Bain, and thanks daddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure of Hilde and Bain's relationship. You can interpret it as either romantic or platonic. Personally, they are semi-platonic. Mostly good friends, but lots of cuddles, too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel finds someone. Kili and Bofur enter Erebor.

_23 October TA 2941_

 

Tauriel frowned at the snow sifting down on her and her horse. The trail she followed had gone cold and she camped the previous night among the broken teeth of an outcropping. Time seemed to be her enemy and the trail was indiscernible. She paced, frustrated. Once more, she sat down, cleared her mind, and thought.

And felt something. A lot of somethings.

She left the connection open and ran, following the twisting, anxious feeling coursing through her being. Tauriel stopped when the sensation got too irritating, too painful, and she cut the connection. Her magic had worked. She found the mass of somethings. A massed army in rank and file marching in the weak sunlight, glowing with almost an unearthly light. The warriors carried shields and bows and pikes she knew well. Thranduil’s army.

The impulsiveness of men took over and she ran to hail the army, which halted in a rippling wave, the marching song stopping with the movement. A small vanguard carrying the banner of the Greenwood rode out to meet her on the plain.

“Tauriel, we thought you dead.” The lead Elf, one she didn’t care for, said with equal parts disgust and surprise.

“I am quite alive. What brings the King’s Army out of the forest?” Tauriel pointed her chin at the column who waited with infinite patience.

“Word reached the King that the Dwarves were successful in flushing the dragon out of the mountain. He rides to claim what is rightfully his, and was denied to him so many years ago.”

“So he brings an army to demand a trinket?” Tauriel didn’t try to hide the scorn in her voice.

The Elf shrugged, and looked back at the warriors.

“What brings you into the wild? Seeking a way to cross our borders and infiltrate the Realm?”

“I came looking for the Prince, so that he may hear the plea of the people of Lake-Town. Their town was ruined by the dragon, and the survivors seek aid and assistance for the winter.”

“The King cares not for a handful of men.”

“He should. They are his trading partner, the ones who supply him and the realm with Dorwinion wine.”

“Former. Men have such short lives, they are replaceable.”

Tauriel bowed, “thank you for your time.” And she turned her back on the guards and the army.

She took her time returning to her horse, but hurried back to Esgaroth, her desire to find the Prince extinguished.

 

_23 October TA 2941_

 

The gates of the mountain Erebor were ruined by the dragon and his hasty exit. Fragments and splinters of the old gates were everywhere, along with odd spatters of what appeared to be gold. Kili slowed their approach to the gates, hastily rebuilt with what the Dwarves of Erebor had available, the cold air aggravating his knee. Bofur was glad for the slower march. He gaped at the kings and warriors carved into the visage of the rock.

“Durin himself guards the gates.” Bofur whispered.

Kili surveyed the carvings, their intricate detail still nearly perfect after so much time. Runes and pictorials told the tale of the founding of Erebor, and the triumphs of the Line of Durin. He wondered where he would fit in. The ‘spare to the heir,’ the second son of Durin. He didn’t return triumphant to the mountain, he returned like a coward, hiding scared among the men until necessity forced his hand.

“Yer young, lad. Ye have an entire lifetime to live up to yerself.” Bofur whispered.

Kili waved him off, “’S not that. My knee.” He rubbed the joint but the lie still sounded lame.

The rebuilt gates, shut tight against the cold, loomed impressively, imposingly silent. They crossed the terminator into the permanent shadow of the mountain.

“Kili!” The gate opened enough to emit a single Dwarf, who rushed for the pair with a familiar, welcome blur of blond hair.

Fili knocked his forehead against his brother’s and hugged him had enough to crack a rib.

“Decided to return to where you belong?” Fili laughed, but something was off. Something bothered him. Still Kili laughed with joy.

Fili greeted Bofur, slapping his shoulder warmly instead of hugging him.

“We come with a request, rather than a homecoming. Will Uncle hold an audience with us?”

“You have to go through Balin for that. Something… not right with the King.” Fili sobered quickly, shifting nervously.

“Is he ill?”

Fili wavered, “in a way, but come inside, out of the cold. Everyone will be thrilled to see you. Did Oin come?”

“No, his old bones wouldn’t have agreed with the journey, and there are people who are still ill and injured.”

“Ah well, I see. He is dedicated to the art of healing. Come in, anyway.”

Fili pulled Kili and Bofur inside, and shut the door, shutting out the light. Kili blinked until his vision adjusted. Everything inside seemed to glow.

“I know, it takes some time to get accustomed to the underground after so long under the sky.”

“Kili,” a gruff, but friendly voice said and the younger was swept up in another bone-cracking hug by Dwalin.

Kili and Bofur were quickly pulled deeper and the Company emerged all at once to greet them. They were hugged, head-butted, and manhandled like a young Dwarf at a family reunion. They were swept up in song and chatter, deeper and deeper into the mountain, and along precarious stone walkways, and across the golden floor of the Hall of Kings. They passed the forges, belching fire and smoke, the smell of melted gold permeating the air. Eventually they reached a chamber somewhere in the depths of the mountain and were sat at a long table. Bombur bustled out with a feast from what stores were left and the company sat to toast the return of their brethren, their mountain, and their new King.

Balin sat across from Kili, smiling warmly at the youth. Bilbo lingered behind the Dwarves, unsure if he should approach, but a welcoming beckon from Kili brought the small Hobbit rushing over and clinging to the Prince like his life depended on him. Kili hugged him and pried Bilbo away enough to breathe. A technique he learned living with Tilda and children who liked to cling.

“Now what I hear is you come back to the gates with more than just returning to your homeland on your mind.” Balin said, clasping his hands together and resting them on the tabletop.

“We come asking for aid on behalf of the survivors of Lake-Town. If there is no aid, then we ask for shelter for the winter.” Kili said formally.

Balin shared a look with Fili and frowned, “I do not know if Thorin will give aid to anyone, much less shelter. We understand that times are hard for them, but our hands are tied. The decision is down to the King.”

Kili made a face, “if I may be informal here. You two are dancing around something. What is wrong with Thorin?”

“Informal has been the mode of this company since we left the Ered Luin,” Balin said with an air of disappointment.

“Kili, brother, there is a sickness that lay on our line,” Fili said, sitting next to him. “A mental sickness, one that causes a Dwarf to be driven mad by gold. It seems that Thorin has fallen victim to this. He thinks of nothing but his gold and how he can keep it from thieves.”

“And the Arkenstone,” Bilbo squeaked, hand jammed in the pocket of his too large coat. “He threatened me at sword-point when I failed to retrieve it!”

“Since I arrived, I have heard nothing but the difference in Thorin, and how he’s changed. If it were road-weariness, he would have recovered. I fear for him.”

“I’m sorry lad,” Balin said, dropping his chin to his chest. “I doubt we can help you.”

“Then sneak something out. Blankets or grain. Anything. Something,” Kili slapped the table.

Balin shook his head, and his beard wagged.

“This truly is out of our hands.”

“Did anyone from the town come with you, perhaps one of Bard’s girls?” Fili asked.

Kili smiled, “you just want to see Sigrid again.”

Fili made an indeterminate noise.

“They did come, but I don’t see how that will help.”

“A direct representative is usually preferred to a rather biased proxy, usually.” Balin said. “If the daughters of Bard wish to come to Erebor, it might change the King’s mind. Likewise, Dain should arrive soon, you can wait until then. The King’s mind will be suitably distracted and he may be more generous.”

“Dain is coming? I thought he wanted nothing to do with this mountain.”

“He wanted nothing to do with the quest. The danger involved was too great, but now that the mountain has been reclaimed, he offered his assistance. The diaspora from the Ered Luin have also been summoned.”

“Mother is coming?”

Balin nodded with a smile, “she will be exceedingly happy to see you. To see you both. And she may be able to whack some sense into her brother. That’s happened before,” Balin chuckled. “However, until then, I’m afraid we can provide neither help nor shelter.”

“Not even an audience with the King?” Kili lamented.

Heavy, uneven footfalls drew the Company’s attention to a doorway.

“Unc – King Thorin!” Kili caught himself.

“My nephew, you have returned from your dalliance with the men of Lake-Town.” Thorin sounded oddly pleased.

Kili stood and bowed. “No, I come asking for aid on behalf of the refugees of Lake-Town.”

Thorin’s lip twitched. Kili took a moment to take in his Uncle’s disheveled appearance. Even during the hardest parts of the Quest, Thorin looked better than he did now with unkempt beard and hair, and deep hollows under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept since their ousting of the dragon, and perhaps he hadn’t. Others busied themselves with tasks: eating, cleaning, and picking grime off their boot, anything to avoid the wrath of Thorin.

“Why should I give refuge to the people who live fat and happy on their lake, fed by the profit of Elves?” Thorin scoffed.

“They no longer live on the lake, they’re refugees on the lake’s shore. The dragon you sent destroyed their home.” Kili couldn’t keep scorn and accusation out of his voice.

Thorin laughed once, “then they now know the suffering of a home ruined by that creature. Their fate is no worry of mine.”

“Their fate is my fate, it was Fili’s fate, and still is Oin’s. Without them, we would have perished, and without them you would not have reclaimed this beautiful mountain. You would have no heirs, no subjects, and no home. You would have to trek the miserable distance back to the Ered Luin and hang your head when you crossed the threshold.”

Thorin turned his back on them and left.

“Kili, that was harsh.” Fili chided.

“I didn’t mean it.” Kili sank back onto the bench.

“I told you there was something off with Uncle.” Fili placed a comforting hand on Kili’s shoulder. He felt the sharp bones beneath cloth and frowned.

“I should go. Fili, come with me. You’re a great asset to the village.”

Fili looked at the doorway. “My place is here. I am the Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Erebor.”

He spoke slowly and with a heavy sigh, resigned to his fate, and to the weight of the crown already bearing down on him.

Kili looked up at him, “what? No, Fili, you have to come back. We have to stay together.”

“We did for the quest, but now I must take up the responsibilities of my position. I’m sorry, Kili, my place is here. You’re welcome to stay, though.”

Kili looked heartbroken. Dwalin elbowed his brother.

“You should not be without your promised treasure, or a portion of it,” Balin said, rubbing his shoulder. “Wait long enough and we will bring you something.”

“I. Thank you. Yes.” Kili nodded.

Dori and Nori scurried off to the treasury, where the gold was being counted, stacked, piled, cleaned, and generally tidied. They carefully avoided the throne room where Thorin sat, reminiscent of how Thranduil sat on his throne, not caring for anyone or anything, except the gold and the still missing Arkenstone. With a heavy, worn boot, he tapped an old song on the stone floor, its rhythm echoing through the chamber. Two halves of his mind warred with each other. The rational part said that his nephew, his own flesh and blood, had come to him for help. That he should help his kin and the people who indeed helped him in his time of need. The irrational part screamed that he was just another thief. By allying himself with the men, he gave up his rights, and now he just wanted to steal his precious gold. He’d fled from his home, and returned triumphant. Everything was now his and his alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, haven't seen the third movie, so anything of Erebor's interior is mostly made up, with what I could get from the second movie.


	12. Chapter 12

_23 October TA 2941_

 

Sigrid paced a silent vigil, watching the gates for any activity. She declined food, but gladly drank offered water. The sun crept from horizon to zenith, and still she waited. Tilda explored, but never went far. Old Bjorn watched the girls walk and hold silent conversations with each other.

_“What happens if this fails?”_ Sigrid asked.

_“Is that why you’re restless?”_ Tilda signed back. She didn’t like to speak in the company of so many dead.

_“Yes.”_

_“It won’t fail. They’ll be successful and we’ll have help for the winter.”_

_“You’ve got your optimism back. There was a time when you were so upset.”_

_“It’s hard sometimes. But don’t worry about me.”_

_“I know, it is, and I still have to worry about you. Da would want that.”_

 

_24 October TA 2941_

 

Bain woke up in the spare bedroom at Brun’s house, disoriented and confused. He blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes until he remembered where he was and why. He tried to stretch and kicked something. A fat canvas sack sat on the end of the bed. He pulled the sack towards him. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t light either.

“I did the best to guess how much you could carry.” Brun said from the doorway.

Bain jumped. “Brun, thank you.”

“There’s more at the inn. Your people should be pleased, though take my advice, son, don’t go towards Gondor. Something pollutes that road. Go back or go to Rhûn. My advice is to go back.” On a good day, Brun was a no-nonsense and serious man, but this morning, he seemed to redouble the seriousness in the voice. Though he softened a little. “And Hilde sends her love. She had to go to the shop early, and didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“Thank you for the advice.” Bain pulled on his boots and laced them. “And give Hilde my regards.”

“Of course lad,” Brun tugged Bain into a crushing hug. “Take my advice, and do avoid the forest.”

Bain returned the hug, pulled away, and shouldered his pack, shifting the straps so it sat comfortably. He shook Brun’s hand and left the house bound for the inn and his companions. He was greeted with cheers.

“Whatever you did last night, it was astounding!” Kolbrandr wrapped an arm around Bain’s shoulder.

“What’s that mean?” Bain was confused.

“This morning we found everything we needed waiting for us! Food, clothes, blankets, you name it, and it’s there! Whatever you did last night, thank you! Breakfast is on me.” Kolbrandr steered Bain to the table where the rest of the party sat.

He pushed into a seat next to Kolbrandr and handed a plate piled with fresh eggs, hot cakes, and thick bacon. It wasn’t as good as Hilde’s cooking, he though, but it was still better than anything he’d had recently in Esgaroth. The party quieted down as they ate, occasionally laughing at a joke or comment or jeer across the table, and once plates were pushed back, talk resumed.

“My contact in town says we shouldn’t go any farther south.” Bain said.

“Good,” Johan laughed, “Because we’re all going home!”

Bain excused himself to go to the stable. In a spare stall was everything the others talked about, all arranged on a cart to be pulled behind one horse, though there were multiple horses waiting. He made a note to thank Brun, because he’s the only man who could have arranged this much in this short of a time, and took one of the horses.

 

_24-25 October TA 2941_

 

Tauriel camped that night and rode back to Esgaroth, arriving just as the lamps were being lit. She felt no cheer, and no need to hurry.

“What news do you have?” An elderly woman asked. She waved at her grandchildren to take the horse.

Tauriel dismounted and handed the reins over.

“The Elven King marches for Erebor. He will likely pass close to the village.” Tauriel said, straightening her vest.

“Does he bring aid?”

“He does not,” Tauriel tried to keep emotion out of her voice.

The reactions of the small crowd that had gathered were mixed: some cursed, some blamed fate, some blamed the Elf herself, but a lot blamed the Dwarves.

“He acts for himself. The Dwarves have something he covets, and with the death of Smaug and the installation of Thorin as King Under the Mountain, he seeks what was once his.” Tauriel explained.

“He thinks nothing of his trade partners?” Someone asked.

“He cannot see outside his own realm, beyond the borders of his own desires. What happens outside the boundaries of the Greenwood is of no concern to him. I’m sorry I come with such bad news.”

“There is nothing we can do,” the elderly woman patted Tauriel’s hand comfortingly. “If the Elf King refused aid, then we are all doomed.”

There was some murmur of agreement.

“You’re not, though. You, all of you, are crafty and intelligent. You’ve lived your entire lives on the water. Just because Bard is dead,” someone wailed in the crowd. “And the Master is dead,” this was met with cheers, “does not mean you are leaderless, lost and hopeless. You know how to fish, you know how to harvest, you know how to barter and trade from other villages. Sitting and feeling hopeless will lead you to your doom, and it won’t fix anything. I heard, and have seen, the impromptu weapons made when all the proper weapons were locked away. Don’t despair for your loss, mourn and move on. Winter is coming, yes, but the fish still run, the rabbits still scurry. There is still plenty of roots and berries out there. Winter will be hard, but everything will be right in the spring.”

There was no cheer for a rousing speech, but the generally dour mood that had settled lifted, if only slightly. Tauriel nodded, and patted the heads of some children who gathered around her, and escaped to the home she shared with the children of Bard. She felt exhausted, and forewent food for rest.

 ***

Tauriel roused herself well after breakfast. Still there was a fresh roll sitting at the door. She smiled as she ate, following the sounds of what seemed to be a party. There was much laughter and talk, and someone found a jug of alcohol and was passing it around. She found the village clustered at the lakeshore, some mending nets, and some out in boats pulling up nets both with and without fish.

“You were correct, Tauriel,” the elderly woman from the day before said. She had a child in lap who was getting hopelessly tangled in the net.

“We wallowed too much in self-pity and worry. We _are_ a strong community, and if we can survive years with the Master in charge, then we can survive one winter. We just need to work together. Had you been born with the right blood and status, you would have made a wise ruler.” The woman turned her attention to the child in her lap. “Now what have you done here?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long, and a lot happens here, but it's setting up a bulk of the rest of the story. My apologies.

_24-25 October TA 2941_

Kili was surprised that it was nearly midnight when he and Bofur left Erebor. They both carried packs of what the Dwarves could gather from beneath the watchful eye of Thorin II Oakenshield, Reclaimer. Kili supposed having Nori along helped, since the Dwarf could steal the beard of the most astute Dwarf and get away with it.

He’d heard rumor that Nori had done just that before.

They didn’t have much, but they had something. Tilda waited, despite the late hour, with a torch burning at the gates of Dale, looking so hopeful Kili was pained that they couldn’t do more.

“I’m sorry, lass.” Bofur apologized before anything else was said.

Tilda slumped, disappointed. She sniffed, trying not to cry. Bofur scooped her up and carried her back to the camp.

 ***

Old Bjorn stood, with Sigrid’s help, looking hopeful. Kili simply shook his head. Bofur set Tilda down and swung the pack to the floor. The gold coins in the pack rattled.

“A couple of blankets, some old clothes that I think they took from corpses, and some gold.” Bofur shivered, and not from the cold.

“Something’s wrong with Thorin, something with his mind.” Kili scrubbed his face with his hands and itched his beard. “We should just go back.”

Sigrid snapped, making an angry huffing sound.

_“Why? Why not? Why not even listen?”_ She glared at her sister, angry she was too shocked by the outburst to translate. Sigrid shrugged and continued, her hands forming angry ideas in the air. _“Curse the race of Dwarves! We gave theirs aid, why not return the favor? Curse the Dwarves and curse the mountain.”_

Sigrid stalked off, towards Esgaroth, turning her back on both Dale and Erebor.

“Sigrid!” Tilda called uselessly. She looked helplessly at the Dwarves and Old Bjorn, took a torch, and hurried to catch her sister.

“Sigrid wait.”

Sigrid didn’t wait, she didn’t slow down. She kept walking, and angry, defeated march through the darkness. She finally stopped when the glow of the campfire was no longer visible, and turned on her sister.

_“We have gone through too much to be cast aside like we don’t matter.”_ She signed angrily. _“Too much pain, too much loss, too much blood. I know the Dwarves have suffered more, but we deserve more.”_

“Sigrid, let’s go back,” Tilda said calmly.

Sigrid sat in the dirt and rubbed her eyes, trying not to cry.

“We’ll go to the gates, just you and me, the Lord and the Voice. We’ll represent Esgaroth, and they’ll have to listen to us. If Thorin won’t, then someone else will.”

_“If they won’t listen to their kid, why would they listen to two kids from a ruined town?”_

“Because we’re the heirs of Giri-”

Sigrid snapped, something she started doing when she cut someone off or wanted attention.

_“That only works with the men of this area! Being heirs of a long-dead and failed lord doesn’t matter to anyone else but the people of Lake-Town and the descendants of Dale!”_

Tilda studied her feet in the torch light. Her sister was right.

_“If da were here,”_ Sigrid cried, curling in on herself. Tilda sat next to her, rubbing her back, waiting for her shoulders to stop shaking. Somewhere a nightingale called.

“We could at least try.” Tilda said quietly.

The stars shifted in their nightly course before Sigrid finally got up, and miserably walked back to the miserable camp to sleep miserably for a few hours under a moth-eaten blanket that smelled of mildew and earth. Kili sat watch, but didn’t acknowledge them as they returned. Tilda dropped the torch into the fire, now burning low, and snuggled under her own blanket against her sister.

_Better the Dwarf didn’t notice or say anything,_ Sigrid thought, _Dwarves have a terrible way of showing gratitude._

_***_

Sigrid slept through daybreak, and when she did wake up, she was reminded of the betrayal of the Dwarves. Kili returned from his personal business to find her sitting on a broken wall, throwing stones down the hill towards Erebor.

“We did the best we could.” Kili said in his heavily-accented Westron.

Sigrid shrugged.

“I’m going back today, to try and reason with them. You girls should come with me, you might make a difference.”

An indifferent shrug.

“Think about it, okay?”

Sigrid looked back as she heard the shuffle to Dwarven boots. She wished, not for the first time, that her voice worked. That she could argue with him, and tell him that she knows they did their best. That she had no qualms with him, or the other Dwarf, and she would go and plead her case on her people’s behalf.

But instead of words, she had nonsense sounds and wild gestures and a sister who did all the talking.

She vented all her frustrations on unwitting wall fragments.

 ***

Tilda slept next to Sigrid until her big sister left. She blinked and shivered, creeping over to curl up next to Old Bjorn. The old man tossed the edge of his blanket over her. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to go back to sleep. When Kili left, she rolled away, pressing her back to Old Bjorn and tried not to cry. Everything felt wrong.

She did sleep, and she dreamed of the sounds of anguish. Something shook her and Kili’s knees and then face swam into focus. Kili prodded her awake with his boot and Tilda jumped in surprise.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting next to her. She sat up and found Old Bjorn gone. “I need you to talk to your sister. I want to go back to Erebor, and I want you and Sigrid to plead your case. I think actually seeing the children of the man who helped us may be what we need.”

She yawned and sat up. “I don’t know how much sway I hold in Sigrid’s mind, but I can try, okay?”

“Thank you.” Kili smiled down at her and disappeared.

Tilda stretched and stood, brushing dust and dirt from her dress. She wished for a change of clothes, or, at least, a fresh smock. There were some ruined tunics in the bag from Erebor but they all smelled like death. She took her hair down, brushing the snarls with her fingers, and carefully pulled it back into a twist at the back of her head and secured it with her hair pins again. She felt a little better about her appearance, and left the shelter of the house into the surprisingly warmer morning.

Kili and Old Bjorn were having an energetic, albeit one-sided, conversation. Bofur leaned against the wall and smoked his long pipe, lost in his own thoughts. Tilda found Sigrid, still sitting on the wall, and still throwing rocks down the hill. Sigrid heard her approach, and waved her away.

“Sig, it’s me. Can we talk?”

Sigrid waved her away again.

_Funny, it’d be one-sided since I can’t talk,_ she thought.

“Kili said he wants us to go back with him, to try and plead our case. I think we should.” Tilda said softly, sitting next to her sister, though she faced Dale.

_“So?”_ Sigrid signed. The clatter of the rocks was a huge sound in the stillness.

“You never know, it could help. What’s the worse they could do? Throw us out? So? If they do, we have Tauriel, and Bain. Bain will definitely come back with something. You _know_ that. If anyone took to da’s line of work, it was him, yeah? And the eggs he brought back will hatch and we’ll have chickens! And if the Dwarves help, we’ll have more, but they truly won’t know unless we go and plead our case, tell our story, and demand what was once promised to us.” Tilda bumped her sister’s shoulder. She was rewarded with a small smile.

“Come on, Sig, just try.”

Sigrid nodded and wiped her face with dirty hands, leaving a smear of black. Tilda giggled and used the hem of her sleeve to wipe it away. Her older sister carefully came down from the wall and smiled. Arm-in-arm they walked back and nodded at Old Bjorn.

“Good to see some smiles on you lasses.” The old man said.

Kili came up, holding a dress. “Here. I found it in one of the houses, and it looks about your size. I found something for you, too, Tilda.”

Sigrid studied the dress and tried not to scoff. The style was outdated to the point she’d seen sketches and drawings of her grandmother as a girl wearing the style. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, cutting her hand across her chest. Tilda looked at her and understood.

“This dress belongs to the dead. Thank you, Kili, but we’ll wear our own. Please put them back.”

Kili shrugged and walked off.

“Wise choice. Don’t need any spirits turning wraith on us. They would rain down more disaster on our little town.” Old Bjorn studied them. “You both have grown into fine young women. Go to Erebor and convince the Dwarves our people are worth saving.”

Sigrid started to sign her thanks, but dropped her hands and just nodded.

 ***

Sometime later, they found themselves dwarfed by the impressive façade of Erebor. Sigrid studied the intricately and expertly carved guardians flanking the gates of the city. Dwalin stood in the ruined doorway, standing watch for an enemy that didn’t exist, and picked his nails with his knife.

“Brave coming back, laddie.” Dwalin nodded to Kili. “Daughters of Bard, good to see you healthy. I hope you never told anyone how we arrived in your house.” He winked at them with half a smile.

“Brave? Why brave?” Kili asked.

“After being turned out by Thorin? I would say so. You expect to be treated any different because you brought along two girls from Lake-Town?” He pointed his knife at the sisters and went back to cleaning under his fingernails.

“Esgaroth.” Tilda corrected.

“Doesn’t matter to him.” Dwalin looked around. “Better come in, though. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Any word on Dain’s army?” Kili led the sisters through the gate.

“None.”

Sigrid and Tilda had to stop and let their eyes adjust to the darkness, and when they did, she gaped. Even after decades of rot and ruin, the Dwarven halls still gleamed and shone. She suddenly felt very self-conscious about her hometown. Lake-Town, even at the height of its glory, never looked like Erebor. The walls were carved as expertly as the statues outside, as if the residents had an army of artists chipping away at the green stone. Veins of gold glittered in old patterns, tracing the angular Dwarvish lettering with a gilded inlay. When she put her hand on the wall, everything felt warm, almost alive. Everything, even the ruin and stink of dragon, exuded grandeur and wealth, albeit a broken grandeur.

Kili allowed her time to grow accustomed to the darkness before leading them further. This time there was no fervent welcoming party, no whirlwind of Dwarves coming and going, no happy smiles. Tilda clung to Sigrid’s arm as they walked.

“So you’ve returned, and brought two disheveled daughters of men with you to my kingdom?” Thorin’s voice echoed on the stone walls. Kili jumped. He hadn’t seen or heard his uncle approach.

Thorin’s hair had been washed and carefully braided, his clothes today were free of stains, and he looked like he’d slept for the first time in weeks, yet there was still a hint of manic in his eyes. He waited for a response, watching Kili and the girls like a hawk watches its prey.

Kili squared himself with Thorin, and stuck his thumbs in his belt, and met Thorin’s tainted eyes.

“We come again for what I came for yesterday. We come for help.” Kili’s voice was firm and cold.

Thorin laughed, a short and harsh sound.

“What could possibly make you think I would help a pitiful town of water-logged men that could not even give us what we paid our good money for?”

“Those ‘water-logged men’ save me, your nephew, and gave shelter and aid to your kin when they needed it most. Without Bard, we would have been slaughtered by the Orcs, or worse yet, captured. Without Bard, I would have succumbed to the poison running through my veins.”

“The Company would have survived without them. Those loyal to the Arkenstone are strong. As for you, what do you matter in the grand scheme of things? You are nothing, you are the second son, destined for considerably less greatness than your brother. Your brother is a polished gem, waiting to be set in a fine crown. You are the useless shard tossed aside by the jeweler.”

Kili fought to not break. Thorin had been harsh before, but his tone now was cruel.

“Even the shard has some use, as it can bring joy to those who find it.” Tilda spoke out, moving to stand next to Kili, and matching his stance. She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed Thorin with what she hoped was a hard look.

“How charming, the daughters of men know how to speak out of turn and without being spoken to first. This is the rudeness you wish to bring into my Kingdom? Be gone, Kili, I have more important matters to attend to.”

“How _dare_ you.” Tilda bristled. “How dare you disrespect us when we are in your presence! You are a King. You should be wise and kind. Being rude gets you nowhere in life, King Thorin, the Reclaimer. You are not fit to be a king!”

Thorin turned on Tilda, leaning over her.

“What place does a sewer rat have to tell the noble and wealthy what they are and what they are not?”

Though Thorin wasn’t much taller than Tilda, she felt infinitesimal. Still she held her ground, Bard’s stubborn streak shining through in his youngest daughter. Thorin sized her up. In his mind, she was just another one of _them_ ; the ones wanting his gold, his treasure. She would go home and tell her people about the riches of Erebor, and soon they would all come.

Why had they even bothered to come to his door?

Thorin gripped Tilda’s jaw easily in one hand, looking into her eyes, and turning her head as he judged her character. Tilda’s eyes watered – his grip was firm and tight, on the edge of painful – but she refused to show any fear. Like any wild animal, her father taught her, never show fear. Behind his eyes, she saw something, a mental conversation or thought that dropped his concentration for a brief second before he released her and stepped back.

“I may have misjudged you. You are braver than I thought.” Thorin adjusted his tunic and addressed Kili. “I have changed my mind. I will see you at dusk, and you three may stay in my kingdom until then. Dwalin will guide you, if you have a need to go anywhere.”

Kili bowed stiffly, “you have my thanks my King.”

“At least you show some courtesy.” Thorin growled, sweeping back into the shadows and away.

_“What a miserable Dwarf.”_ Sigrid signed, pulling Tilda close and checking her chin for any signs of bruising.

“He’s usually not this bad,” Dwalin said, again melting from the shadows. Sigrid wondered if that was a special skill of Dwarves. For all their bulkiness they could be incredibly quiet.

“Something is wrong up here,” Dwalin tapped his bald, tattooed head.

“I’ll say,” Kili finally relaxed, but kept watching where his uncle had left.

“It’s the dragon gold.” Dwalin shrugged. “Thorin has it the worst.”

“What are we going to do until dusk? And what time is it?” Tilda asked.

Even with the numerous braziers and torches, the mountain still seemed very dark, and shrouded in shadow and lingering death. She couldn’t figure out how much time had passed.

“It’s only been an hour since you entered. I’ll show you the clock.”

“Dwalin,” Kili pulled the larger Dwarf aside and they had a conversation in their native tongue. Being around them so much, Tilda picked up a word here and there, but nothing enough to string together. Even in the caverns, words fell flat.

Kili frowned and looked around. The mountain didn’t live up to his Uncle’s tales. His mother was wise to not tell him fantasy stories, though she’d been a small girl when the Dragon arrived. True, that dragon sat fat on the treasure hoard for so long, but everything lacked the mystique and epic fae-story feeling he and Fili discussed. It was like getting a large Durin’s Day present and the only thing inside were socks. Erebor was broken and shabby, not glittering and pulsing with life.

Kili felt let down.

He sighed, said a few more words to Dwalin, who nodded, responded, and sighed himself with a shake of his head.

“Let me show you the clock.” He reached to take Tilda’s hand.


	14. Chapter 14

_24-25 October TA 2941_

The eastern lands of Middle Earth are largely empty, desolate, and bereft of large cities and generous populations. The wise races, the Elves and Dwarves, smartly hide in trees and rocks in this portion of the world. The men of the wind-swept and rocky plains farm what they can, raise what they can, and earn what they can. The land of Rhovanion stretches from Esgaroth to the increasingly desolate land of Mordor; from the Misty Mountains across the Greenwood to Rhûn. And in the twilight of the Third Age has fallen into disarray and disrepair. Until the vineyards of Dorwinion and the blue sea of Rhûn, a traveler can expect few villages, fewer people, and little hope.

Bain heard of rumors of evil travelling with the winds that dance through the outcrops and hills, whose sides were chewed bare and twisted by harsh elements. He shivered, though not because of cold, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself. Autumn was in full bloom, but on the plains, the winds blew cold and relentlessly. He urged the sturdy horse, a mare with dappled hindquarters whose name was Arna, down the trail while he studied the map given to him by Brun. He wanted to keep the forest on his right and the river on his left. The small bit of the Greenwood that stuck out worried him. He’d been warned about the forest, how the Elves are protective of it. He wondered if there were Elves in the protrusion that would shoot him before he could even cross through.

He kept one hand on the hilt of his knife.

He chewed on his lip as he put the map into a saddlebag. If he failed to get more supplies, then Esgaroth would fall. He’d been tasked with resupply, and what they had from Brun was impressive, but clearly not enough. He had to do more, and make his da proud, even if he wasn’t around to praise him for a job well done. He was now the man of the family, and he had to provide for his sisters, even if that meant abandoning them while he wandered like a vagabond.

He was no more than a vagabond, he thought; a homeless creature without anything to tie him down. Just himself, a horse, and who knew how many days of food. He tightened his grip on his knife. The leather under his palm calmed him. He’d be safe here, where the chances of running into thieves was high. Desperate people, like himself, looking to make money or to eat, like himself. He was one of them, and they would not hurt him.

Arna shied when they approached the wall of forest. Bain had to stop and reorient himself, and make sure he wasn’t going for the forest itself. The Greenwood had swung around, but the river was still on his left, and the forest on his right. All was good, all was right, and he swore he saw creatures and faces among the branches of the trees as they swayed with that relentless wind.

The small portion of the Greenwood was a foreboding place. The river cackled with echoes among the dense trunks and underbrush. The canopy shimmered in reds and golds of dying leaves, leaving skeletal, reaching claws and branches. Things scurried, and owls hooted, and Bain got that tickling feeling he was being watched, or targeted by Elven arrows.

“I am just a traveler,” he called out, his voice both echoing and falling flat. A leaf hit him in the face and he swatted it away. “I helped Tauriel in Lake-Town, and I mean no harm.”

Whatever watched him considered his words and that tickling feeling went away. Bain smiled. He was safe. The river talked excitedly in its bed, and he could see the distant portal back into open air. More leaves hit his face as they fell, and he began to feel dizzy and light-headed. The swaying of the horse made his stomach feel sick, and the lights doubled, and then tripled. He clutched the reins and hoped he didn’t throw up, or float off into the sky.

Something chittered ominously and Arna flattened her ears. Bain turned his head and the world turned with him, then rotated. He barely remembered slumping over, he vaguely remembered hitting the forest floor as he fell backwards, and the faces crowding around were more of a dream than a memory.

 ***

Bain came to with the sun in his face, lying on his back on the trail. His head and shoulders throbbed, his back ached with every move, and with a probing hand, and he discovered a large lump on the side of his head. His skin prickled in the way he knew he’d been out long enough to be burned.

He groaned non-words and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

No one spoke up.

“Of course no one is there. I must have blacked out when I fell. Arna, did you drag me out of the forest?”

Somewhere nearby the horse snorted.

Shadows moved over his face and body, and he carefully opened his eyes. White clouds floated through the blue sky. He breathed, and the throb in his head subsided. He sat up slowly, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his elbows there. He breathed deeply, and a wave of queasiness washed over him. He breathed slowly, like Bard taught him: in through his nose, out through his mouth. He felt better, so he looked around.

The river was to his left, the forest to his right and curving away. Stray trees and shrubs dotted the plain. His knife was an arm’s length away, and his pack sat in the dirt on the trail. The sun was still high, but sinking fast, and his stomach complained mostly of hunger. Arna was cropping grasses close to the river, so Bain picked himself up, working out the soreness from riding all day, and joined her. He pulled out trail rations of meat and fruit jerky and sat back down on the riverbank. He ate while the river talked in its own language, one the only part he could understand was cold.

_“Water carries heat, and cold. Be ready for either if you need to make a fast escape,” Bard told the younger Bain as they hid in the bushes alongside the road. When they returned home much later, they’d both hear it from Sigrid. The shockingly cold water Bain had to jump into had given him hypothermia on his left hand and left him choking from the instinct to inhale. However, what they brought with them had abated the nagging as Sigrid worked with the bandages._

The sudden memory dropped his mood and he flopped back on the grass and stared at the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, geography is the seat of my pants.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More inside Erebor.
> 
> Sigrid experiences some personal growth.
> 
> Also, more Ereborean interior I made up.

_25 October TA 2941_

Bofur shared a pipe with Old Bjorn as the day stretched on without the girls and Kili. They kept one eye on Erebor and spent the better part of the time telling each other the most ridiculous tales they could think of. Bofur started to seem distracted, then became actively bothered. The vents to the forges leaked smoke, but this late in the day they should have returned, or at least left. He pace and stared, adjusted his hat, and stared some more.

“It shouldn’t take this long,” he complained.

“Politics can take a long time, lad. Be patient, they’ll come back. If I’ve learned anything about the children of Bard, its patience is key.” Old Bjorn said, leaning back against the wall he rested against.

“You would know?” It was more accusation than question.

“I would. I’ve seen a lot of politics in my time. Men may have shorter lives than Dwarves, but I…” he was cut off by the sound of a horn from the east.

Bofur jumped to his feet and hastily climbed to the second floor of a building to try and get a better view.

“What do you see?” Old Bjorn called up.

Bofur peered, shook his head, and peer again into the distance, squinting hard.

“Now would be a great time to have an Elf, I can’t see a blasted thing!” The Dwarf slapped the ledge in frustration, only to have it crumble.

“Is it the Dwarves?” Old Bjorn asked.

“No, then it’d come from Erebor.”

“Then who? That was a Dwarven horn. The Iron Hills are too far away.”

“Iron Hills? Iron Hills! Could be Dain’s men!” Bofur called down excitedly.

“Why would he come to Erebor?” Old Bjorn scratched his head.

“They sent a message to Dain after they reclaimed Erebor. He might be coming with food an’ supplies.”

“Or he comes with war,” Old Bjorn said sourly.

“Where’s that blasted wizard when we need ‘im? Probably hangin’ by his beard in some tavern.” Bofur came down, taking the steps two by two.

“Is Dain someone to fear?”

Bofur shook his head and readjusted his hat, “Don’t know. I’m a miner and a toy maker by trade, so I’ve only heard talk. Hadn’t been out of the Ered Luin much before leavin’ with Thorin.”

Old Bjorn sat down and picked up the pipe.

“Well then, if your comrades know he’s coming, then he’s nothing to fear.” He said, frowning as he relit the pipe.

“Guess not. Think we should tell Esgaroth about this?” Bofur was still pacing.

“And they’ll come back to no one here and an army at the gates? No, I’ll stay, but if you want to go,” Old Bjorn made an “after you” gesture.

The Dwarf sat down, “be seein’ yer point there. The time it takes to get there and back again, might as well not.”

“Unless you have a boat or some wings under your hat, then might as well stay.”

“I’m quite done with rivers, after time before last. Poor Prince Fili never wants to smell apples again, and I ain’t to keep on fish either.”

“Yet you ate like a Dwarf at dinner,” Old Bjorn noted.

“Just sad there wasn’t any spirits to join that fish.” Bofur nodded, leaning back against the wall again.

*** 

The clock was better than anything Tilda had seen. It was powered by gears, but also by a steady stream of water pouring from a fissure. The whole thing was inset into the wall, stretching from floor to ceiling in a grand, layered circle. Around the edge was a model of constellations. There was a small hand nearly to the white marker between the current constellation and the next. In whole, twelve of them circled the whole clock. The next ring had days marked in the Dwarven runic alphabet. The hand here was barely through the current day. In the center of the clock was a rotating plate painted with a sun and a moon. Dwalin explained that this showed the time of day. As the hours progressed, the sun would slowly trade place with the moon. The disk was lit from the back, so as both passed behind a silhouette of Erebor, casting a shadow on the opposite wall.

All free space not occupied with the sun or the moon was occupied by images of Dwarves. Triumphant marches followed the day around with bakers and miners, Kings and Queens (though Tilda had trouble telling the Kings from the Queens), and Dwarves of all sorts. All watched by their creator, Mahal, drifting between the sun and the moon, reaching down with a hammer to his subjects.

Everything was inlaid with gold and gemstones, and it all glittered in the light of torches. Tilda would happily stay and watch the clock for hours, and wished she could pester the creator to find out how it worked. She guessed the waterfall was the timing: a measured amount of water in a certain time like the hour glass her da brought her from the far southlands.

Dwalin led them on, weaving through the mountain. Kili followed at a distance, just inside the ring of light from the lantern Dwalin carried so that his face was heavily shadowed. Dwalin threw him knowing glances, and shaking his nearly imperceptibly. You don’t travel with a Dwarf for months, out of the frying pan and into the fire and back again, without gaining an appreciable reading on their bearing. Or their disappointment.

The green stone of Erebor glittered under their feet and over their heads. Veins of gold speared through the wall, and lines of inlaid gold words and images intercepted the veins; great arteries of Dwarven knowledge and history. Here, everything was written in gold. Sigrid wondered if they used gold ink for their pens. She traced her finger along the inlay. It pulsed warm with her own heartbeat.

_“This gold would provide for us, our children, and our grandchildren. Just one of these veins would be enough.”_ She signed.

_“Your skirts aren’t big enough to hide that much gold under. They’d catch us before leaving the gate. Maybe if you wore that dress from Dale, though.”_ Tilda signed back. Dwalin arched his brow, but ignored the hand-speech.

Sigrid grinned, _“You’d have to carry some in your skirts as well.”_

Tilda grinned and patted her thigh. Something jingled, and she looked briefly ashamed.

_“Hidden pockets. Bain and da thought it would be fun to show me how to sew them into my skirt. I made a few the other night, just in case.”_

_“Sneaky, but don’t go getting the idea that stealing is good.”_

_“Of course not.”_

The girls smiled at each other then returned their attentions to Dwalin and his rambles about how great the mountain once was.

_“Once upon a time there was a great Dwarf who lived in a hole in the ground. Not just any hole, filled with ooze and worms, but a comfortable hole, fit for a king.”_ Sigrid signed. Tilda snickered.

The girls, trailing Dwalin, passed through countless rooms and corridors until they came to a room with a distinctly different stone, grey instead of green and lacking the gold streaks. Like the other rooms, the ceiling stretched higher than necessary for a short people. In this room, the ceiling was twice as high, allowing for a great balcony above, from which were hung banners in various states of preservation. The rear wall looked hastily repaired, beyond which the sound of the forges roared. Small spatters and trails of gold flecked the walls, but the main attraction was the floor.

It was solid gold, but Dwalin never mentioned it. He instead focused on the wall hangings.

“This is the Hall of the Fathers. Each banner bears the coat of arms of every ruler of Erebor.” Dwalin’s voice sounded tiny. “The tapestries depict the history of the mountain, from the founding by Durin the Deathless, to the fall when the dragon took our home. We will, of course, add a new tapestry depicting the death of the dragon and King Thorin II Oakenshield’s coat of arms when our brothers from the Iron Hills arrive.”

Tilda gleefully looked at all the tapestries and coats of arms.

“These are fantastic!” She squeaked.

Sigrid was focused on the floor.

_All that gold_ , she thought. The Dwarves were sick with it.

“The gold floor is unintentional,” Dwalin sounded embarrassed. “We attempted to encase the beast in gold, but the best laid plans of moles and Dwarves…” he trailed off with a shrug.

That explained the gold flecks and what seemed like footprints. They _were_ footprints.

_That_ was their best idea? Sigrid frowned, blinking back tears. That’s all they did to attempt to stop the monster that destroyed her home? The monster who killed her father, who made her who is was today? A mute with lingering pain, no father, a rogue brother, and a sister forced to endure far more than a child should? She turned her back on the gold, pressing her lips together and furrowing her brows. Controlling her anger and her pain. She was more than just some damaged teen, she knew that. But the golden floor.

The fact that the Dwarves had been so short-sighted to not expect the beast to be alive. (Yes, the people of Lake-Town thought the dragon dead as well but no one would go in unarmed and without a master plan of attack. They were simple but not stupid.) The fact that they sat on enough gold to flood the floor of a room, to try and gold-plate that horrible creature, and the people who helped them saw none of their gold until they came begging.

Everything led to a storm in her mind. She _was_ more than a damaged teen, the recent months had shown that. Anyone else would have given up as helpless, but she kept fighting. She was more than just a girl, a daughter of Bard; more than just a disable girl relying too heavily on her sister; more than something deserving of pity. She was wrong when she told Tilda being an heir of Girion means nothing to anyone but her people, it meant everything, and if they didn’t see it, so be it.

She _was_ and heir of Bard, and heir of Girion, a descendent of a strong line of men and women, of natural-born leaders; she was more than her injuries, and more than her petty, angry thoughts. Yes, there was a lot of gold, more than a few Dwarves needed, but she wasn’t going to get it by being weak and begging. She had to demand it. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and turned around, fixing a firm look on the bald Dwarf.

Dwalin finally noticed something, and acknowledged the change in her bearing. He took a step back.

“My lady,” he gave a short bow.

Sigrid nodded curtly to him, and turned a soft look on her sister, running her fingers through Tilda’s hair.

“ _Don’t strain your eyes.”_ She signed to her sister.

“If the ladies of Lake-Town desire, I can speak with Ori and show you some new designs for banners and tapestries,” Dwalin suggested to Tilda.

Tilda looked delighted.

That delight turned to fear as alarms and horns sounded, echoing and reverberating through the stone corridors. Dwalin and Kili looked at each other as shouts in Dwarvish echoed through the hall. Dwalin nodded to Kili and ran back towards the gates.

“What’s happening?” Tilda asked.

Kili looked around and chewed his lip. Shouts that sounded like his name were coming now.

“I really, honestly can’t say, but I have to go. I’m being summoned. I’m sorry Tilda, Sigrid, but you’ll have to stay put for now.”

Kili looked like he was torn on running after Dwalin and giving them each a hug. He chose to hug them, and then run with a limp down the hall.

Sigrid looked as surprised as Tilda, shrugged, and went to sit against the wall, no longer so fixed on the golden floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would kill for that clock. However, California is in a drought.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dain arrives, and Thorin is an ass.  
> (like that's any different)
> 
>  
> 
> From here on in, anything involving Erebor is mostly of my own design. I'm sorry for confusion, since I haven't seen the last movie.

_26 October TA 2941_

The morning came with weak sunlight, long shadows, and people gathered in the town square. With weapons.

“What are you doing?” Tauriel asked the assembly.

“We’re tired of waiting. Thorin promised us gold, he promised us wealth. If the Elves can march for Erebor, then so can we!” A young man cried from the center of the crowd. The assembled, nearly the entire town, cheered in support.

“This is not wise. Please, calm down, aid will come. You do not want to get involved when the Dwarves and the Elves are involved.” She warned, keeping her voice calm.

“You speak of wise choices?” The young man came forward. She’d seen him often, and was genuinely liked. “You left your people on a whim to follow a party of Dwarves. You decided youths should represent us, when one of them cannot even speak. Elf, you have no right to tell us to calm down, you’ve not lived our lives, or suffered as we have.”

Tauriel held up her hands, and backed away.

“Do as you will, it is your own demise you march to.” She said, breaking through the edge of the crowd.

She thought of riding out, meeting the line of Elves, rekindling old alliances, and making a formal apology to the King. She could fight alongside them, albeit at a lower rank, and repay her debts to her people. However, she was no longer an Elf of the Greenwood through no other declaration but her own. Perhaps once the winter passed, and the mountain routes opened again, she would seek lodging with the Elves of Rivendell. She would still be out-of-place, but she would be among like-minded people.

Her mind wandered as she did, finding her way back to the house she shared with Bard’s children, where she kept her arrows, now fletched in styles more befitting of Men or Dwarves. She thought once more of Rivendell, of serving Lord Elrond, of the hours in the days spent with music or dance, of feasting, and riding out into the open land hunting what was no longer there. With a decisive motion, she picked up her quiver, fastening it around her waist. She smiled at the weight of it, missing how it felt, how the need for battle ran through her veins. Her arrows and blades pulsed for the taste of blood. The material of her leather bodice sang to be part of the chase, to feel the wind, to hear the screams of the enemy, and the mutterings of prisoners.

As she dressed, she thought of the people gathered; the ones rallying enough courage to stand up for what Thorin had promised them; the ones too young to fight, but still standing by their families; the ones too old but nodding their approval and blessing; the ones already lost to the conflict to come. She thought of being surrounded by stiff Elves, ones too unbending and too rigid, not willing or wanting to move with the wind.

The people out there were out-numbered and out-muscled, but they were her family. Here she got to see the stars, and be with the wild. Here, she was free, without expectations.

 

_25-26 October TA 2941_

Chaos rolled through Erebor like a tidal bore from the gates, washing back through the tunnels and chambers. By the time it reached the Hall, it was a dull roar.

Outside the mountain, Dain and his men arrived, a wave of Dwarves in armor with a trailing supply train. Dain led the company; a hardened Dwarf with a foot made of iron, he was considered a competent and fine leader, having brought the Iron Hills wealth and unity. When the raven came to him, he acted. His people mined the iron Erebor would need, and Erebor could, and would, pay any price asked, as well as act as a conduit for their product.

Together their realms, Thorin and Dain’s, would rule vast areas of Middle Earth under a single crown. A kingdom to rival those of Men or the Elves of old, where gold and treasures flowed easily from the north to the south, and as far west as the Ered Luin, or beyond. He fingered the mithril beads woven into his beard as he waited for the Dwarves of Erebor to greet him, and his company.

Inside the mountain, Thorin was fitted with Dwarven mail, an angular Dwarven sword from the armory, and the heavy stone crown that sat uncomfortably on his brow. Dwalin appeared in the doorway, and bowed deeply to his king, taking his place as guard on Thorin’s left flank. Nori, armed with no visible weapons, took Thorin’s right. Together the three walked to the gate, heads high, and minds full of possibilities.

The farther Thorin got from the treasury, the more he had to focus on his breathing, on his walking. His heart raced, and his mind screamed that the dogs in his mountain would take everything and he would return to vast emptiness. He stuttered in his steps, and had to drag his thoughts away from being dethroned because a lesser being captured the Arkenstone before himself. He flexed his hands as Dwalin opened the gate, flooding the entryway with afternoon light.

 ***

Dain regarded the three Dwarves that emerged from the broken gates of Erebor carefully.

“Scruffy looking,” Dain’s guard, Khain, mumbled.

“Well, they travelled across Middle Earth, roused, and then exhumed a dragon. You cannot blame them.” Dain shrugged his shoulders.

“By Mahal’s grace, I welcome you, Dain of the Iron Hills, and your people to Erebor,” Thorin said loudly, voice echoing. He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture.

“I am welcomes, Thorin II Oakenshield, Reclaimer, and I greet you in return, thanking you for your hospitality.” Dain returned, placing his hand over his heart and bowing deeply.

“Enter, and be welcomed, friend.” Thorin stepped aside, allowing Dain and Khain to enter the mountain.

 

Dain blinked his eyes until his vision adjusted, and what he saw made his heart sink.

Erebor was a mess. The stink and filth of Smaug still clung to the walls, despite countless scrubbing. The walls themselves were cracked and worn, the veins of gold interrupted by jagged claw marks. The careful gleam of yesteryears faded with time and disuse. Yes, his boots echoed on the hard stone, but the returning echo was faded and dull; an unhappy sound. The runes that spoke of the history of the mountain and the line of Durin bore mighty cracks. Even the crown on Thorin’s brow seemed lifeless and lacked the luster it had when it sat upon his father’s brow. Dain shook his head while Thorin’s back was turned, a motion not unnoticed by Dwalin, who gave him a sympathetic nod.

Thorin moved with the grace of his line. He hadn’t worn the princely, much less kingly, regalia in more decades than countable, but he still moved as elegantly as the day he fled the mountain. His mother was a patient but firm Dwarf, and no one in the family ever forgot a lesson, especially when it came to posture, grace, and the art of running a kingdom.

His crown, however, drained his energy. Bags beneath his eyes stood prominent, his face slack, cheeks hollowed, and the bulk of a healthy Dwarf bolstered with padding and layers. He sweat beneath the cloak and daggers, and the singular need to be near the hoard pulled at his mind. He knew every piece of gold in the mountain, and they called to him and created a map in his mind that sang a siren song. Each piece was his birthright, and he would not part with a single coin, bar, and not even the inlay in the green stone.

“My cousin,” Thorin knocked his forehead with Dain. “Many times removed, and I am pleased you headed my message and came to aid us. Do forgive our state of affairs.”

“My dear Thorin, our ancestor smiles warmly at your success. If you father or grandfather could see you, they would be pleased. You and your companions have done a fine job of reclaiming our home.” Dain smiled and clasped Thorin’s forearm.

Thorin felt a shiver of something…unwelcome. He smiled through it.

“You are welcome in our home as long as you need, though we are low on supplies.”

Dain threw his head back and laughed.

“Of course you are! You trekked across all of creation, dealt with men, and flushed a dragon from its caverns! What was left surely was consumed or desiccated by the time you raced in, swords glinting to route that beast from its stolen throne. Of course we come with aid for our brethren.”

Thorin smiled and bowed shallowly. He turned to Dwalin, “please allow Dain’s men entry into the mountain if they wish.”

He turned to Nori, “sort and organize their cargo. See that everyone has provisions, and a place to rest their heads.”

He addressed both of them, “ensure that nothing happens in my kingdom. Keep the peace.”

He leaned in to whisper to Nori, “Alert me if anything is out of sorts.”

Dain signaled to Khain and the second Dwarf that came with them, “Go with masters Dwalin and Nori and assist them. Bring me news if anything should require our attention.”

“We will be in the throne room if we are needed.” Thorin told them as they took their leave.

 ***

“Sigrid, relax, they’ll be back.” Tilda told her sister from the floor.

She’d gotten up and began to pace the room. She made a huff and looked over at her little sister, sprawled on the floor, tracing the patterns with her fingertip.

“I wonder if we can get into the forges area.” Tilda wondered, propping herself up on her elbows, resting her chin on her hands.

_“Probably, but that wouldn’t be advisable. If the Dwarves caught us, it might ruin our chance to help our people.”_

“But I’d like to see them. They can’t be that big because the Dwarves are so little!”

_“Like their egos.”_ Sigrid grinned and sat down beside her sister.

Tilda all but crawled into her sister’s lap, facing the same direction as her. Sigrid wound her arms around her sister and hummed a little tune.

_“You’ve been so brave. I keep forgetting you’re a little girl.”_ Sigrid let her sister out of the hug and wrote with a finger on Tilda’s back.

Tilda frowned and shook her head as she focused on what Sigrid spelled out.

“I don’t think I’ve been. I’ve been me. I’ve done what needs to be done. You’ve been brave! You saved the town and got better after being hurt so badly, and now you’re going to meet with that awful Thorin!”

Sigrid gave up on writing on her sister’s back. Instead she spun her so they were face-to-face.

_“We’ve both been brave,”_ Sigrid signed with a smile. _“But I need you to be brave if that monster of a Dwarf decides to eat me!”_

She playfully snarled and tickled her little sister.

Tilda yelped and squirmed under her sister’s onslaught of tickles. She begged for Sigrid to stop, yelling “UNCLE!” She turned the tide and attacked Sigrid, tickling every spot she knew. Sigrid didn’t stop, and Tilda laughed loud enough for the both of them. The pair wrestled, laughing and squealing despite the danger. The younger quickly sobered up, sitting neatly on the floor and fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

_“What is it? Tilda, what’s wrong?”_ Sigrid signed, concerned, lifting her sister’s chin.

“I’ve almost forgotten what your voice sounds like!” Tilda wailed. “I don’t remember mother’s and now I’ll have forgotten yours too! I thought you voice would come back! I thought one day you’ll laugh and chide me again, and now you won’t!”

Sigrid wrapped her arms around Tilda and slid her close, rocking her gently. She hummed a broken lullaby and Tilda cried big tears into her arm.

 ***

The throne room was as Dain remembered: open and vast, with walkways that dropped off into the mountain below. Surrounding the central throne, built from a spire of green stone, stood alcoves where Dwarves could watch proceedings, if they were open to the public. Once more, the carved Dwarven guardians watched from either side, inlaid with gold veins and arteries. The light of braziers and unknown sources forced deep shadows to hang everywhere.

The only thing missing was the Arkenstone, the Durin right to rule the mountain. Its setting was broken, as was the very pillar the throne was carved from, smashed by the furious claws of a gold-hungry dragon. Even here, the mountain reminded the Dwarves of their lost glory.

Thorin sat in the throne, resting his head back. Dain looked him up and down, assessing the fact that the Arkenstone was still missing. Without the gem, Thorin had no official claim to the throne, and Dain could easily take it from him, if he wanted. He could put Thorin at a lower position, Steward perhaps, or send him to the Iron Hills to rule there.

Of course, all of these were options if Thorin chose not to cooperate.

Dain bowed deeply, as was polite, and spoke, his voice echoing.

“Hail King Thorin, King Under the Mountain, Lord of Silver Fountains, Hail! Mahal’s Hammer shall ring with gladness at your return!”

“Well met, Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, brethren to my people. Come and discuss with the King the matters of your heart.”

“There are no matters beyond aid, King Thorin.” Dain laughed.

Thorin frowned.

“Dain, do not think of me as a fool. There is no other reason you would come and request a private meeting with me. There is something you want.”

“Private?” Dain scoffed. “My Lord, if I wanted private, I would have suggest a room other than the throne room, where anyone and everyone can watch the matters of state.”

Something itched in the back of Thorin’s mind.

“Tell me what you have come for.” Thorin leaned forward.

“I come with nothing more than aid on my mind. You sent the raven, and I answered the call. Your people will come, they will return to Erebor, and they wait for a time when the rivers of gold flow freely once more.”

“So you come for the gold?”

“My Lord, no. I do no not desire the g-“

“Liar!” Thorin roared, standing and pacing around the throne. “You come for the gold, as everyone comes for the gold. They covet it, they desire it. It is the will and the want of our people, but the gold belongs to me. As rightful ruler of Erebor, and inheritor of its land and riches, I along lay claim to the treasury. You,” he pointed at Dain with a shaking hand. “You _rats_ come to scavenge. I can hear you all night and day, rummaging, taking one or two pieces here and there, but I know. Yes, I know your master plan. Depose the King, take his place, and claim his treasure; his gold, his mithril, and the land that is rightfully his.”

Thorin sat down as Dain watched, shocked and saddened. He’d never see the gold-sickness in person.

“But you know what?” Thorin inhaled and exhaled, his voice shaky. “I won’t give you the chance, Dain II Ironfoot of the Iron Hills. You and your men shall have nothing. Take with you only the fleeting memory of what Erebor looks like, for that is all you shall see of it.”

Thorin turned, dismissing Dain, focusing elsewhere. Dain nodded, bowed, and left, emotions boiling. When he reached the gates, he called for Khain, Dwalin, and Nori.

“Build ramparts, my friends. Wall yourselves in or out, it matters not, for soon war shall be upon you all.” Dain warned.

Dain and his vanguard left, wading into the thick of his soldiers, who had broken ranks to make a camp.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Bain!
> 
> One should not burn wood from the Greenwood.

_25-26 October TA 2941_

A thrush landed beside Bain in the grass, twittering energetically in the afternoon light.

“I hear you, I hear you.” Bain rolled over, facing the small brown bird. “What message do you carry?”

The blood of Dale that ran through Bain’s veins carried with it the ability to understand the thrushes. His father carefully nurtured this skill in his son, and together they used the thrushes to carry messages when their business took them in different directions. Bain listened to the rambling of the small bird, offering it bits of bread as thanks for the news.

“The men of Esgaroth grow restless. The winter draws near and the sun! The sun is so great! The Elves march from the Greenwood. My flight cousin told me so!” The thrush scraped at the dirt. “There are no fine bugs here. The insects grow bitter the farther south I go. Something in the air, in the wind. The Dwarves sit on their gold still!”

The bird cocked its head, finished a beakful of bread, sang a few nonsense bars of song, and flew off in a hurry, apparently having better business than talking to a bemused human. Bain watched the bird go, pushing himself up. His head ached, but he stood up, brushing much of the dirt and grass off. He walked stiffly to the edge of the stream and stripped. With an audible gasp, he stepped into the cold water.

The river was cold, but lazy, not more than a meter deep, and maybe half again as wide. A sandbar split the current, scruffy grasses nodded with the breeze there. He waded to his waist, sure that he would come out a woman, and began splashing water on his body. He scrubbed off the dirt and grime and blood, letting the filth wash downriver with the silt he stirred up.

Cold but refreshed, Bain used his dirty shirt as a towel to dry himself and squeeze the water from his hair. He changed into clean clothes from the pack, obviously Brun’s old clothes from the way they fit and the amount of mending on the knees. He busied himself finding firewood for the night.

“Bain,” he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

He looked around, but found nothing. He squinted and went back to picking up dry branches. The wood by the river was soggy and minimal, wet limbs washed from the forest. He searched closer to the trees, twisted and imposing in the afternoon light. Again he saw movement from the trees, and eyes glinting – now two, now six, now eight – and shapes of beasts two large for simple forest creatures. Bain looked away from the forest, focusing on picking up sticks.

If the cursed Dwarves had taught him anything, it was how to make a fire, and soon he had a low fire burning in a shallow pit. He sat close, huddled under a blanket as the chill air of evening threatened to steal all the warmth from his bones. Even Arna approached the fire, wary but appreciative of the warmth.

“Bain, my son.” The voice came again. Something familiar he couldn’t put his finger on. A warmth to the voice that triggered happy memories in his mind.

“Da?” He asked, looking around.

The wood in the fire crackled and shifted, releasing another cloud of smoke and ashes.

“My son, you’ve turned into such a man in the short time I’ve been gone.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here, Bain. Come sit with your father.”

“I can’t see you,” Bain sounded desperate. “I thought you died. I watched you die. I buried your body on the shore of the Lake!”

He stood and circled the fire pit, tears in his eyes.

“Bain?” The voice shifted from Bard to Sigrid’s. “Bain, where are you?”

“I’m right here!”

“You left us, Bain! You left us to starve and die in the cold!”

Strange how it took such a short time to nearly forget how his father sounded, but he could still perfectly remember the sound of his mute sister’s voice.

“I haven’t! I’ll be home soon!” Bain argued.

“It’s terrible, Bain, there’s blood everywhere.” Sigrid’s voice trembled. “There are so many dead, so many dying. Even Oin can’t hope to save them all.”

“Sigrid!” Bain yelled, leaving the safety of the fire, chasing the sound of her voice.

“Bain don’t leave, we need you. We need you to stay.” Bard again, chastising his son. “I thought I taught you better than this. I thought I taught you to use your best judgement. You thought abandoning your family was better than suffering with them?”

An unspoken word and accusation drifted into his mind: _“Coward!”_

“I am not a coward!” Bain screamed at the sky. The stars blinked in cold, heartless agreement. To insult or to Bain’s denial, he wasn’t sure.

The air stilled, animals taking the place of voices. Bain shivered and returned to the safety of the fire, stretching out under his blanket. It took a long time for him to sleep, and when he did, the dreams were fitful, though he could not remember the details.

 ***

He woke in the morning, cheeks stained with tears shed sometime during the night. Bain scrubbed his face clean in the cold water, still haunted and bothered by the voices from the night before. Clean snow sifted down as he prepared Arna for the day’s ride. She snorted as he pulled himself into the saddle, pushing the mare towards the river. Arna shied and balked at the cold water. Between the cold water and cold air, she had no want to freeze for the sake of the human. Still, Bain kept trying to push her into the river. Arna reared and threw Bain and turned her back.

“Fine, you win.” Bain grumbled, pulling her away from the river. “Back to the damn forest.”

Bain pulled himself back into the saddle, letting the horse pick her own path.

_“You can’t even stay on a horse,_ ” something whispered in the back of his mind.

“Shut up!” Bain growled.

Arna stopped at the broken pillars of an old, ornate gateway, snorting and laying her ears flat. Bain dismounted and walked to the grey stone. The fine marble and limestone architecture, carved in the Elvish idiom, all fluid lines and shapes, had weathered through age and the elements. Limestone flaked under his fingers, dusting off in the breeze. A dark wind blew through the portal, and Bain stepped back simultaneously with Arna, wrinkling his nose at the stench. The foul, yet sweet smell of rotted flesh mingling with the musty smell of decay.

“The forest was not this forbidding the first time.” He coughed, his vision swimming. “We can’t go through here.”

He pulled himself back into the saddle, “come on, there has to be a ferry crossing somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a good hallucination at night.
> 
> My understanding is that those in Bard's family can understand Thrushes. If not, well, I've given them a new talent.


	18. Chapter 18

_26 October TA 2941_

 

Tauriel heard the sound first: the sound of music, and songs, and feet marching on glass. Bells and rippling notes of metal moving against metal. Tauriel hurried out of town, scanning what horizon she could see. As the sound grew, a shining wave approached. The townspeople flooded out to see what they could.

“The Elves! The Elves come!” Someone shouted.

“They come to aid us!” Another shouted.

“They do not come for us, they come for the Dwarves!” Tauriel countered.

No one listened. The sound of celebrations joined the incessant musical clanging and song. Men and women added their own voices, a harsh counterpoint to the Elves musicality. Mortal and immortal met in a cacophony that grew to a dire crescendo, leaving nothing but a vague cue beneath the noise. As the Elves approached, the men fell apart to loud chaos that poured through the streets.

The Elves stopped on the ridge above Esgaroth, the village suddenly more shabby and dull in their presence. They gazed upon the remains on the Lake, and the new town, some with curiosity, and some with disdain. Thranduil, in armor that reflected rainbows, sniffed and called the column forward. The men of Laketown were not his problem. Still, he let his gaze linger as he clearly saw the young former Captain standing among the blur of commotion, her hair blowing gently in the breeze, braided in new styles. He tilted his head, an action that spoke volumes of care and thanks, before turning back to his mission at hand.

As the column left their field of view, the people rushed out, and Tauriel found herself being pulled along by a young man.

“There’s a present!” The boy shrieked. Tauriel loosened and followed the boy.

There, surrounded by a crowd of people, sat a decorated box made of beech wood. The carvings covering every inch, and the finely crafted latches could be none other than Elvish. It gave off the feeling of the wind through the trees on a warm summer day. Tauriel felt uneasy being so close to what was so familiar.

“Hurry up now!” Someone shouted impatiently.

The latches were flipped and the lid opened without a sound. Atop a wrapped bulk lay a single sheet of vellum paper. This was handed to Tauriel to read.

“In thanks for countless ages of service to the King of the Greenwood, and in compensation for your losses. To the people of Lake-Town from the Elves of the Greenwood.” Tauriel translated.

Thranduil was blunt as ever, though she couldn’t help but think that part of the letter was directed towards her. With the letter read, the people dug into the box, which managed to contain more than it seemed. Clothes for adults, children, women, men, and everyone in between. Thin blankets that kept you warmer than the thickest quilt. Food. Enough food to provide everyone with porridge and bread all winter. The glee at the supplies was infectious. The happiness spread to a fervor. A bonfire was constructed and as the last of old Lake-Town went up in flames, the new Esgaroth glowed.

When Johan and his party came back, the party multiplied. What Brun and the people of Riverside had donated was spread among the families.

People almost ritually left goods at the house of the heirs of Bard, in thanks for what they started, and in memory of their father.


	19. Chapter 19

_26 October TA 2941_

Thranduil was pleased with himself. His people, under his command, left supplies for the Men of the Lake without stopping. Halting any more would delay his arrival at the Mountain and negotiations with the King. Though he had ages, Thorin aged day-by-day, and his time, by his account, was running short.

The march slowed as the terrain roughened, and once more, he stood on the cliff overlooking the gates of Erebor. This time, however, instead of a stream of panicked Dwarves, there is the broken gates and the Dwarves building a temporary wall across the entrance to the mountain. When the Dwarves noticed the Elves they stopped what they were doing. Quickly the garrison of Dwarves clustered around campfires gathered their weapons and turned to face the Elves. Weapons were drawn, waiting for either to strike first. Everyone knew the stories. The old rivalries so deep rooted in the races that friendly words hardly came. No one moved, they each waited for the other to attack first. When it was clear there was no ill intent, both sides relaxed. The Elves took the opposite side of the road to Erebor for themselves, breaking rank quickly and efficiently. Sentries from both sides were posted to watch for hostilities.

The word was relayed through Erebor that the Elves camped outside their doors, and soon Thorin was not surprised to hear of a request from Thorin for an audience.

“I will meet him at the gate, on neutral ground.” Thorin grunted and the message was quickly relayed to Thranduil.

 ***

_“We should leave.”_ Sigrid signed as they sat beneath the immense clock, hopefully out of the way of the hurrying Dwarves. The sound of hammers and stone echoed back from the gates.

_“Everyone is probably worried.”_ Tilda signed back.

_“But how are we going to leave? There haven’t been any other doors.”_

_“Da always said the mountain was locked tight, but there was a secret door. The Dwarves got in, so they must know where it is.”_

_“Then it won’t be a secret!”_

Sigrid laughed, an abrupt sound that echoed.

_“No, it won’t. Well then, we’ll have to sneak out the front door.”_

“How? We’ll need a wizard to magic us invisible!”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo appeared from nowhere. The girls jumped and Tilda yelped.

The Hobbit bowed, “I am very sorry, I did not mean to startle you. Perhaps I can be of help.”

“How? Are you one of the five wizards?” Tilda frowned, trading looks with her sister.

“No, but I have a magic ring that makes me invisible.” He fingered the little gold band.

Sigrid signed, Tilda translated. “Can it take both of us at once?”

Bilbo hemmed and hawed for a few moments before answering.

“I do not believe it works that way.”

Tilda’s eyes widened at Sigrid’s angry reaction.

“She, uh, doesn’t want to use it if we can’t both get out.” Tilda had to filter a few of a worst words.

“Listen, I was hired on as a burglar. I’m light on my feet and very quiet. Once it gets dark, I can sneak out with Tilda, wear the ring back in, and sneak back out with you, Sigrid. Easy.”

“But the gate?”

“I know the secret door to the gate. Dwarves seem to put a secret door in every new fortification. It’s a compulsion. We can use that.”

“You’ve been sneaking around this whole time, huh.”

Bilbo grinned Tookishly and signed, _“Yes, I have.”_

Sigrid’s dually surprised and delighted gasp echoed around the chamber.

“I am very sorry. I didn’t mean to crack your code. It’s just that language is a fascination for me.”

_“No, no. It’s okay! It’s no secret at all!”_ Sigrid shook her head with a relaxed smile.

“Actually, if you can speak our sign language, it makes it easier on me.”

Sigrid looped her arm around Tilda’s shoulder and squeezed her little sister.

“The sooner we get home, the better. I miss my bed.”

_“We’ve only been here a day or so, silly.”_

“I’m a growing girl! I need my lordship sleep!”

Bilbo and Sigrid both laughed and Bilbo mussed the girl’s hair.

“Old Bjorn must be so worried, so we should hurry, and Bain is probably home by now, and wondering where we are!”

 ***

The three made their way to the new wall, moving shadow to shadow as quietly as possible. The Hobbit was nearly silent, and Tilda marveled at that. His feet were so large they should have made some noise, she thought, observing her own small feet. Ori and Bofur stood watch, standing on scaffolding behind the wall, and peering out into the darkness.

_“I hear voices,”_ Tilda signed.

Bilbo hugged the strangely warm stone and hurried ahead, moving between shadows. He beckoned the girls after him. He held his breath and pushed at the simple stone door, which scraped on the floor. Ori turned and peered into the darkness, investigating the shadows. He shrugged and resumed his watch, taking the pipe Bofur offered. Bilbo took the girls’ hands, and pulled them through the portal, shutting the door after them.

The door slammed, and they heard Ori and Bofur scramble down to investigate. Sigrid let the breath she’d been holding go in a stream of white towards the stars. The delightful pinpricks of light in the dark sky she’d missed. Tilda took stock of where they were and their situation. Dale was still directly in front of them, but so were two armies, one Dwarvish and one Elvish. She guessed they wouldn’t take well to three strangers walking down the road in the middle of the night. The two opposing forces was also, probably, why Bilbo didn’t just tell them to ask to leave.

“How will we get to Dale with two armies watching the road?” Tilda’s teeth chattered. Sigrid wrapped her arms around her sister to share warmth.

A laugh from empty air had them spinning.

“Bilbo Baggins, you take that ring off right now!” Tilda chided.

With a flourish, Bilbo appeared.

“You are with a master thief, a dragon slayer, and a sneak. Follow me.” He bowed, his oversized coat fluffed around him making him look like a ridiculous bird.

He crept into the night, hugging the shoulder of the mountain as he skirted the Elvish camp. Near the extravagant tend that served the King of the Greenwood, he paused.

“Keep going, keep in the shadows. I need to speak with the King of the Elves, as I have something of importance.” Bilbo whispered, patting his jacket pocket. “Something that might secure peace.”

Sigrid tapped Tilda on the shoulder and the girl squinted in the weak light.

“Sigrid and I are coming, too. She is the representative of Esgaroth, the heir and first born of Bard. What you have that bring peace, she needs to be aware of, and present.”

Bilbo looked perplexed, “I do not want to bring you into unnecessary danger. I’m sure I’m not…looked kindly upon by the King and his court.”

“I survived the fall of Lake-Town. I can survive what the Elf King may bring.”

Bilbo sighed, “You’re a stubborn as Dwarves. Come on then.”

Bilbo led the way around the side of the pavilion, into the light, and the three were immediately surrounded. Bows and elegant swords levelled at their throats. All three held up their hands in a placating gesture. With a fierce grace, the Elves bound the intruders.

“I wish to see King Thranduil,” Bilbo said in broken Sindar before being gagged.

The guards exchanged glances, skeptical and concerned, before divesting the captives of weapons – only poor little Sting – and roughly shoving them inside. The beauty of deceptiveness of the Elves left terrified little Tilda no longer squirming her hands against the silk-soft ropes binding her wrists, but staring at the opulence of the war-time quarters for the King. Not even the Master could hope to match at the height of the rule and gout. The interior stretched away far larger than the exterior and she desperately wished she could look again outside to see if the sizes indeed matched. A contained fire warmed the room, crackling with pleasure. An incense burner scented the air like the deep woods on a warm afternoon – after the hot sun has penetrated the canopy and begun to warm the leaf litter – earthy and sweet. Weapons stood in racks, guards waited seemingly unarmed, an unconcerned harpist continued to play a sweet melody that bordered on the somber.

“Ah the little thief of the Greenwood, back to steal more of my prisoners?” A sonorous, fluid, slightly lazy – or perhaps bored – voice drifted from the back of the tent.

The King of Mirkwood, Thranduil, drifted from his temporary throne to the three. He and the guard conversed in melodic Sindarian, glancing at the prisoners and exchanging nods. Their gags were removed.

“You were heard speaking at the edges of my camp. We’ve known you three to be around since you popped out of the mountain, so you must not be spies of the Dwarves. Tell me who you are and what is your business creeping like frightened mice.

“King Thranduil,” Bilbo bowed again, and again looked like a fat bird. Tilda snickered and Sigrid elbowed her to silence. “I am the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins, of Hobbiton, and may I present the heirs of Bard Sigrid Bardsdottir and Tilda Bardsdottir.”

“The Heirs of Bard?” Thranduil’s eyebrows arched. “So the heir of Girion is dead and here in his place come two fledglings. Well met, Sigrid and Tilda.”

Sigrid bowed low, and Tilda curtseyed, dropping her eyes.

“It is a pleasure and an honor to be met and greeted by you, King Thranduil, Lord of the Woodland Realm.” Tilda translated for Sigrid.

“The fledgling cannot sing?” Thranduil asked.

Sigrid shook her head.

“My sister lost her ability to speak during Smaug’s attack on Lake-Town. I stand as her voice, your highness.”

“I see. Perhaps the healers can assist you in regaining your voice.” Thanduil turned his attention back to Bilbo. “You come with more business than presenting the daughters of the late Bard. What brings you to my quarters, Bilbo Baggins?”

“I have something of a bargaining chip you would be interested in.”

Again Thranduil’s eyebrows arched. He had soft cushions brought, fresh tea brewed, and their hands unbound.

“Sit and speak with me,” Thranduil invited them to sit. A plush chair was brought for the King.

“What do you bear that could turn the tide of the Dwarves in my favor, Halfling?”

Bilbo rummaged through the voluminous coat to produce the shining Arkenstone, glowing of its own desire and craving to return to the mountain. Its light filled the tent and cast stark shadows on the fluttering walls.

“I found this in the treasure pile of Smaug, oh great King. Thorin wishes for its return, and its loss plagues his mind.”

“You are quite the thief to steal thirteen Dwarves from my Kingdom and then the most precious stone in Erebor. I must commend you in your skills. However, I am confident that I can persuade Thorin to turn over what is mine and what has been promised. And you, daughters of Bard, what do you seek from the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain?”

“We seek what you seek: Thorin promised us riches before he left and now more than ever we need the gold that’s been promised to us.”

“So you come for what we all desire.” Thranduil said flatly. “Bilbo, what shall you do with the Arkenstone? Will you return it? Surely Thorin will wage war to ensure its return.”

“Ah well, I brought it for you. I have no desire for treasure, I just want to return to the Shire, to my chair, my pipe, and my simple ways. You can do with it as you please.”

Thranduil leaned back, and asked for a glass of wine.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bain gets some good healing.

_Date Unknown, TA 2941_

The cursed forest retreated behind Bain and the horse as they looked for a place to cross.

“Despite the stories of rogues and bandits, I haven’t seen another person all day.” Bain said aloud, but to no one in particular.

The River Running curved slowly and gracefully away from the forest and towards the unknown east. The land remained the same: dry, dead, or dying grass and shrubs among rocky outcrops. Like this was once the scene of a great elemental battle and the cracked and weathered boulders jutting up from the tussock were the only evidence left. The wind blew in a gentle, but cold, breeze that stung cheeks and hands and horse flanks. Snow often drifted to dust the ground, like the powdered sugar on the tall cakes Sigrid and Tilda happily made in their warm home.

The river itself did nothing but widen, stretching itself lazily from bank to bank only to swirl and bite around the large boulders that happened to get it in its way. Rafts of ice floated on the slow portions, the current too swift to allow much more than pancakes that clung to the banks. Bain knew how quickly the river ran. In his short years, he’d made the run down the river with his father and a flat bottomed boat, carrying either barrels or goods downriver.

Now with a good fire, a clear night sky, and the river singing one of Ulmo’s more beloved lullaby’s, Bain curled up under a blanket and wished the Dwarves wouldn’t have come.

 

Morning brought heavier snow, a blank canvas for the horse to leave their trail and story in with hoof prints. They camped under a large outcropping, waiting for the snowfall to ease. The horse stamped and snorted, and Bain felt much the same. He paced, leaned, stamped, and peered out from the overhang at the snow.

“It’s too early for all this snow.” He said, words dampened by flakes.

 

That evening they slept by the river once more, warmed by a strong fire.

 ***

“A bit young and unarmed to be travelling by yourself.” The old ferryman noted when Bain asked to cross.

“I’m not too young. My da was out making the runs when he was my age.”

“That’s where I knew you from. You’re Bard’s boy, right?”

“Yes sir. How much t…”

“How is Bard? Haven’t seen him much recently.”

“He died,” Bain looked away.

“Oh sorry to hear that, son. Must be why you’re all alone. Still grieving, haven’t let go yet. I did the same thing when my pa died in a fire. I won’t pry. Get on then lad and we’ll get across.” The old man patted Bain’s shoulder with hands that looked more like tree roots.

Bain led the horse onto the ferry and the old man guided them across the icy river.

“You never quite get over that loss. You just have to accept it and let yourself move on.” The old man said.

Bain nodded.

“Now, the fastest way back isn’t to follow the river. Go north on this path until you reach the road and take that.”

Bain looked where the old man pointed, turned back to ask about paying him and found nothing but a broken old boat on the riverbank. He shivered from more than the cold and climbed back into the saddle. His legs and rump ached and he wondered if he now walked bow-legged from all the riding. That thought in his head, Bain did something that surprised even himself.

He laughed.


	21. Chapter 21

_27 October TA 2941_

“You have to understand that I am old. Older than any of you could possibly imagine. I have seen many things: good, terrible, mediocre, and grandiose. I have seen wars and evil you will not believe or understand, and what you have brought me could incite the next great war of this world. Do not underestimate the stubbornness of a Dwarf as arrogant as Thorin, nor his ability to hold a grudge.”

“I could hardly,” Bilbo scoffed. “After travelling with that motley crew, I can neither underestimate nor be disgusted with Dwarves.”

“So should I take this with me to my meeting with Thorin, and should I reveal that I possess what Thorin desires most, are you willing to handle the repercussions of your actions?”

“I am.”

“And you,” Thranduil turned his attention to the sisters. “Are you willing to go home and rally your people? To stir them to desire for what they were promised?”

“We are!” Tilda said emphatically.

“When my people passed your town, we left them gifts. Go now and stir them to action. Bring them to the gates of Erebor to demand what is theirs.”

“But what if it come to fighting?  Our people have little in the way of weaponry and armor.”

“If it comes to that, then we shall protect the people of Esgaroth. Fear not, fledglings. Go now, the three of you, and we shall see what dawn brings.”

The girls were given a torch and a guide back to the road. Bilbo lingered, handing over the Arkenstone, which flared at the touch of Elven blood. The Hobbit disappeared into the night and back into the mountain.

***

Sigrid and Tilda backtracked to Dale to find Old Bjorn gone. A note on the wall, written in soot, attracted Tilda’s attention.

_“If you return and I am not here, do not worry. I trust the Dwarves kept you well fed and entertained, but my bones wish for a bed to sleep in. I returned to Esgaroth and will see you there.”_

_“We can go home, finally.”_ Sigrid signed.

“Can we sleep?” Tilda rubbed her eyes.

Sigrid nodded, and started a small fire. Before she fell asleep, Tilda and Sigrid went to the top of a tower, and looked on the vale. Campfires cast dramatic shadows on the mountain face, illuminating the carvings of the warriors from a bygone era. Moonlight and starlight glinted off the snowcapped peak and a thick band of stars fashioned themselves into a crown. Tilda felt a benevolent spirit watching over them all, and a deeper tension that wavered, ready for release.

 ***

Tilda was only able to sleep a few hours. She got up and fussed long before the morning was due to come. Sigrid woke up shortly after, far from the usual grumpiness that came with shortened sleep. She, too, was restless. So they took their torch and left Dale for Esgaroth.

Their arrival caused a stir in the village. They were passed around, hugged, asked how things went, asked about money, and finally released on the other side with hot buns and warm tea.

“Iluvatar above; you’re back safe!” They found themselves hugged by Tauriel.

Old Bjorn joined them in a group hug.

“It’s good to be back.” Tilda translated for Sigrid.

Sigrid looked at Tauriel’s hair and ran her fingers over her own braids. Tauriel laughed and shrugged.

“Tell us what happened, did you meet with Thorin? Where are Kili and Bofur?” Tauriel questioned.

“They’re fine, they’re with the other Dwarves, although something is going to happen.” Tilda spoke for Sigrid. “The Elves from the Greenwood and another clan of Dwarves wait outside the gates, and while we were inside Thorin met with someone.”

“But not you.”

Sigrid shook her head.

“I did get to see him,” Tilda said without Sigrid’s prompting, “There’s something in his eyes. Something that isn’t right, and everyone sees it.”

Sigrid tapped her sister’s shoulder, and she switched to translation, which was always a slow process since she had to wait for her sister to be done before she could fully translate.

“We got out thanks to the Hobbit, but Erebor is enormous, and we met with the Elf king before we left.”

“What did he say?” Tauriel sounded skeptical.

“He said to rally the people, and to demand what has been promised to us! He said to march to Erebor’s gates and tell the King we want the riches he promised in exchange for our help.”

Tauriel’s eyebrows went up.

“That is not like Thranduil. Surely he will use the town in his own machinations. The King thinks only of keeping his people safe and isolated.”

“I couldn’t tell what else he could be planning. Maybe it has to do with Bilbo giving him what Thorin has been searching for. He wants us to stand up to Thorin, though. He was very adamant about that.

“Where is Bain? Has he run off again?”

“In a way, yes.” Kolbrandr said from the crowd.

“What?”

“Well, when we all decided to come back, he went south. I think he was looking for more help.”

Sigrid swore creatively and Tilda decided not to translate that.

“Come on, bath and fresh clothes. You both smell like a Dwarf cave.” Tauriel steered them away.

Bathed and with full bellies, the sisters gratefully slept in the bed they shared.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BoFA! Finally, the Battle that destroys everyone's souls.
> 
> Yet again, I haven't seen the movie, so all the choreography and placement is my own!

_28 October, TA 2941_

Sigrid and Tilda led the way back to Erebor, the path becoming well-worn with the repeated trips. Their militia was tiny compared to the restless, shifting armies facing the road, and their weapons and armor paled in comparison.

The girls were whisked into the Elven camp and found themselves in the King’s tent, facing an Elf gleaming with cold armor.

“The fledglings have returned. I trust you come with an army worthy of fighting alongside my ranks?” Thranduil then smiled at the surprised looks on their faces.

“Negotiations have not gone well. Thorin is beyond my help, and he still refuses to relinquish what is mine. He nearly threw his little Halfling from the wall for giving the Arkenstone to me, and for my part, he has declared war on anyone who opposes him. Today will be a bloody day.” Thranduil spoke casually, as if war never scared him.

“Little birds, I would bring your people to my side or be swept up in the chaos of a battle few have seen.”

“Why should we side with you? Why can’t Esgaroth stand alone?” Tilda asked.

Thranduil’s voice was cold when he spoke.

“Fledgling, you have seen the two armies that face each other? One is immortal, the other mortal, but very hardy and long-lived. Compared to them, your race is frail and easily broken. You can join one side, and be protected longer than you are alone, or hide in the ruins on the town and scrape the battlefield for what is left when all is done.”

Thranduil turned his back.

“Decide now before the high tide of battle sweeps you away.

Tilda and Sigrid were escorted to the edge of the camp, where the Esgarothians shifted and talked low, uneasy between the two camps beginning to clear away personal belongings and sorting themselves into rank and file.

“Well?” Someone asked.

“We were told to side with the Elves, hide in Dale, or face what is coming on our own.”

“And what _is_ coming?”

“War.”

The murmur and talk stopped in a wave from those closest to those in the back. All eyes turned from Sigrid and Tilda to their neighbors, and the townspeople became agitated.

“We weren’t told we were coming to fight!”

Tilda did her best to keep pace with Sigrid.

“But you came armed, and you came ready to take our share of the treasure! You were all loyal to my father, and my forefather, and I’m asking you to be loyal to me.” Sigrid sighed. “You’re welcome to go back to Esgaroth, or to stay in Dale and wait out what may come. No one will think lesser of you. We’re not fighters, we’re not trained with swords and axes. We’re farmers and fishers, smugglers and homemakers. I know that. I’m not a smuggler like my father or brother.”

Tilda’s heart ached for her still missing brother. Sigrid wiped her eyes.

“I’m not that, but I am going to Thranduil with my sword and fight for what was promised to me, and my people! Who will join me!”

Sigrid gripped the hilt of the too-big sword and the energy of the people turned from agitation to excitement.

“For Girion, for Bard, and for Sigrid!” Someone, Kolbrandr perhaps, cried. Others cheered, and the Elves closest to them looked at them curiously.

Sigrid turned to her sister and hugged her.

_“Stay in Dale.”_ She implored. _“Find a building with a second story, and stay there.”_

_“But what if you need me?”_ Tilda whined.

_“I will be fine, Tilda, I promise.”_

_“I’m your sister and your voice! I have to be there! I can handle myself!”_

_“Tilda, this is war.”_ Sigrid kneeled and ran her fingers through her sister’s hair. _“This is not a place for little girls. I need you to stay in Dale, or go back to Esgaroth and be safe. Please.”_

“I’m not just a little girl!” Tilda said angrily. “But I’ll be in Dale, if you need me, oh Lord of Esgaroth.” With a sarcastic bow, Tilda stalked off. Sigrid sighed and rubbed her forehead. She went to chase after Tilda, to apologize, but was caught up.

“Sigrid is right, but I don’t care! I’m going to fight!” Someone yelled. The townsfolk turned their collective attention to the woman. “Obviously all that these Dwarves understand is violence, so I’m going to demand my right with my blade!”

Chatter scaled up to a dull roar and the people of Esgaroth rallied together.

“Take us to the Elf King!” they cried. “We wish to fight for what is ours!”

Sigrid looked once more for Tilda, but she was gone.

***

War waits for no one.

Sigrid led her people back to Thranduil’s pavilion where they were welcomed, and those who lacked proper armor or weapons were given pieces that were ill-fitting for a human. Thranduil took command, telling them to take up ranks towards the rear, to save lives. Sigrid went with them, silent, and without anyone to translate her fears. Room was made for them, and everyone waited. Many in Esgaroth hadn’t seen anything more than a fox hunt.

The pregnant silence permeated everything. Sigrid held her breath and her thoughts, in case they were too loud in such utter quiet. The Elven archers behind her waited, arrows in hand, ready to aim, fire, and have another arrow ready in half a blink of an eye.

At the front the two – now three – waiting armies, those of Thranduil and Thorin, met again to haggle for what they felt were rightfully theirs. A showing of egos in front of their companies, each taking a turn to puff out their chests like pigeons. Naturally nothing came of the two commanders talking in the no man’s land, and when backs were mutually turned, in that blink of an eye, a dam broke.

Sigrid heard someone yell, and the uncomfortable sound of sword on armor. The lines surged, and Sigrid turned to look. Tauriel was there, looking out of place in her Elven tunic and bow, but human hair and Dwarven arrows. She nodded at Sigrid, and signed a word of comfort and reassurance. Someone to her right retched, and Sigrid had to swallow heavily. There was a creaking of bows behind her, and the sharp sound of arrows loosed. Commanders yelled instruction, and the people of Esgaroth had no option but move with the crowd. Otherwise they risked being forgotten, or trampled. She wanted to yell to retreat. To flee the battle. That this fight is not theirs, and Thorin keeping gold from them was not as big a deal as everyone made it out to be.

Her muscles strained and screamed as she hefted her sword again and again to guard or to parry. She watched the Elves and mimicked them. She refused to draw blood, using the flat of her blade and the pommel and hilt. Her quarrel was not with the Dwarves that moved to cut the Elven ranks in half and sequester them, take them down, injure them to the point where their immortality meant nothing. Sigrid moved methodically, rigidly. She ducked, and wove, she smashed, and she shoved. One Dwarf, a burly one with a fiery red beard that stuck out in all directions, brought his – or her – axe up for a heavy blow on her unguarded flank. The Dwarf fell in a flash of green and red. Tauriel was there, pulling her arrows from the fallen. She kissed Sigrid’s forehead, and disappeared once more into the fray.

Time, for Sigrid, slowed down. Every movement took an age. She watched every strike and parry in slow motion. She saw the blade arc towards her, and her body took too long to react. There was a flash of pain, and time snapped back to normal speed. Her sword arm bled, and her old injuries screamed. She managed to dodge what was a killing blow, and she retreated, dropping her sword and clutching the gash in her arm. She pushed past the Elves and men with bloody swords and armor. An Elf saw her staggering and pulled her aside. The last thing Sigrid remembered of the Battle of Five Armies was a sea of Elven faces.

***

Tilda fled from Sigrid, angry and scared and hurt. She retreated to Dale, to the same building where they camped with Old Bjorn and Bofur and cried. She expected Sigrid to come, to follow her, to comfort and console her, but she never came. Tilda didn’t want this: war and strife. She just wanted to be adult enough to help her sister because her sister needed her. Without that, what else did she have? The other girls were snotty and teased her because her dress was dirty, or because her father wasn’t liked by the Master, or their mothers gossiped about her mother and said just awful things.

And she wasn’t just a little girl anymore. She was growing up much faster than anyone else. Maybe it was the same problem everyone in her family had. She never asked Sigrid if the other girls liked her, or if she was able to have playmates that didn’t push her in the canals or call her dolls ugly. For that matter, her dolls weren’t ugly. They were ones her father got her, from the traders and smugglers from far-away lands. Their brown skins and coarse hair didn’t make them ugly, it made them just as pretty as the ones sold in town, with their light skin and smooth hair.

Sniffing loudly and wiping her hands on her skirt, she got up off the ground and went back to the edge of town. She wanted to apologize, but Sigrid was gone. Everyone was gone. She fought back another round of tears, this one because of fear and not anger, and called out names. Nothing but her own voice came back. She climbed the tall tower of their building again and watched as the now four armies clashed.

The distant sounds of battle made her blood run. First hot in excitement. She saw the flanks moving, and predicted the Dwarven plan to cut the Elves in two. Then her blood ran cold because Sigrid was there. She couldn’t see her clearly, but she felt her there. Her sister was terrified and overwhelmed, and Tilda wasn’t there to hug her and calm her down. She only hoped that Tauriel was there for her. There, on her tower, she cheered on the Elves and the humans. They seemed to be gaining. The Dwarven maneuver hadn’t worked, and the Elves moved to flank the Dwarves in return. They’d pin them between themselves and the flank of Erebor, with nowhere to go but retreating further into the valley.

“By the time the Dwarves retreat, the Elves will have sent their archers to pin them in the valley.” She said to no one but herself.

She squeaked as the Dwarves pushed back, breaking off and moving towards Dale.

***

Tauriel fired her arrows like she was trained to do so for her entire life: draw, aim, and fire, repeat. Arrows in the quiver, all perfectly fletched in the Elven style. Move forward behind the foot soldiers, fire cover for them. Do not break ranks, do not do anything out of the routine and ordinary. Everything as rehearsed.

Tauriel disliked it all. She held her arrows in her firing hand, and fire more arrows in the time it took the other archers to fire one. She looked side-to-side, met the eyes of a young Elf maid she worked with while she still lived in the Greenwood. Together they shifted their arrows from their quivers to their hands and broke free, running through the forest of soldiers, using their intuition and wits to avoid the fighters, and fell Dwarves. She only took out the threatening ones, those going after the unaware or already engaged Elves and men, and focused on the people of Esgaroth. She ignored her commanders, and smiled as more and more Elves broke free and followed her lead.

Predicting the Dwarves was always easy: they were a heavy-handed lot, preferring brute strength and numbers to carefully planned strategy. Dain’s men fell easily, and she saw one preparing to strike a terrified Sigrid. The disabled the Dwarf, retrieved her arrows, and comforted the daughter of Bard. She moved on before Sigrid could process what happened.

 ***

The sound of a horn pierced the chaos of battle. Not the sonorous horn of the Dwarves or Elves, or even man, but one that brought with it death and pestilence. The horn of the goblins and orcs sounded, followed by the dark hoard led by white orcs on Wargs poured over the saddle ridge of the mountains, slamming into the battle like a tidal bore of filthy water. With them came Wargs and bats that swarmed the battlefield. Man, Elf, and Dwarf forgot their mutual disagreements and came together to fight back.

The first wave fell easily to the archers, who broke ranks to reform alongside the Dwarven archers. The second wave fell to foot soldiers blades. The third smashed through the hastily formed guard and threaded its way through the masses and towards Erebor. The ground ran red and black with blood and ichor.

Eventually the cry of “the eagles have come” rang out in Westron, Sindar, and Quenya. The broken armies rallied under the new assault to their fronts. The Eagles breeched the shoulders of Erebor and swept into the valley, plucking the great bats from the air, and they turned with gleeful cries to the Wargs and goblins.

Somewhere on the battlefield, a bear roared.

In her tower, Tilda was thrilled and terrified by what unfolded before her, cheering on the Eagles. For a brief moment, as the failing sun emerged from behind a cloud, she saw a figure clad in light chasing a figure clad in shadow across the field. With a flash of sun, they were gone.

 ***

The sun set in a blaze of glory, casting deep shadows on the ruins of the battlefield. Elves and Dwarves walked the battlefield, finding the injured, dying, and dead. A mixed company of Elves and Dwarves chased the remainder of the company of evil. Tilda came down from her tower, and found her way to the healing tents. Once more, she sat beside her sister and waited for her to wake.

“You could have waited more than a few months this time.” She laughed with nervousness, leaning on Sigrid’s cot, running her fingers through her hair.

Rain fell that night, turning the low depression into a chilled lake of blood and gore.

 ***

Bain arrived at Hilda’s doorstep with no fanfare.

“Bain! Where have you been?” She asked, running her hands over his thin, tired face. She hurried him inside and sat him down at the table. “You look just awful.”

“Down south.” He sounded exhausted. She put on a kettle for tea, and warmed the remaining stew from dinner.

He ate eagerly and gratefully, recounting his failed journey. Hilda sat with him and stroked his hands.

“Bain, what are you doing here?” Brun asked, sounding very surprised.

“Going home.”

“You should have been home, and you should have been there for your people and your sisters.”

Bain sat up straighter.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“There’s been a fight, son. You need to go home as soon as possible.”

“He’ll leave in the morning.” Hilda said. Brun didn’t argue.

 ***

He charged home, pushing his faithful mare has hard as he dared. Worry knotted his stomach, and tears froze on his face.

Thankfully, Esgaroth sat on the lakeshore, safe and sound, smoke pouring from the chimneys of the homes. He let the horse walk into town.

“Bain!” Tilda charged out of their little house.

“Tilda! You’re okay!” He dropped off his horse and hugged his sister.

“You too! We were so worried!”

“You were worried! Try coming into town only to hear there’s been a huge fight back home!”

Tilda stopped smiling and Bain’s stomach knotted.

“It was a lot more than a big fight. You should come inside.”

Bain’s blood ran cold. The last time her sister used that tone, his father died. He followed his sister inside, and to their little shared room. There was Sigrid, sitting up, one arm bound against her chest again. She looked surprised to see her brother.

Tilda laughed as Sigrid signed. “She says this time, you’re not the only one who missed the action.”

“When you get better, you two need to fill me in, but for now, I’m glad you’re both safe.”

“And we’re glad you’re home! I should box your ears for scaring us!” Tilda said sternly. “But I want to hear your stories.”

Bain sat on the floor, Tilda on the bed, and the three talked until Sigrid and Tilda fell asleep. Bain stayed awake, falling asleep at the table.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter!

_31 October TA 2941_

A red-haired, mouse-faced Dwarf came to their door and asked the three heirs of Bard to accompany him to Erebor, on the King’s request. Sigrid initially declined, her injuries still causing too much pain to walk far, but Bain offered that she could ride Arna. She glared at him the entire trip with Tilda laughing to the point of falling over. The Dwarf, stronger than he looked, picked her up very nearly one handed, and deposited her behind her sister on the horse.

The four crossed the battlefield, now cleared of bodies and pockmarked with fresh graves, in silence. On Raven Hill some Dwarves were working to erect carved memorial stones. The Dwarf, who gave his name as Nori, broke the silence to hail his companions at the gate. After a brief explanation, the children were whisked into the depths of Erebor.

“I thought you made it up.” Bain whispered.

 Nori stopped before the throne room and made two announcements, one in Dwarvish, and one in Westron.

“Approach the throne, bow low, and wait for King Dain to address you. And don’t look down.” Nori smiled, and disappeared into the shadows.

Sigrid smiled at Tilda, who smiled at Bain, and the three held each other’s hands as they crossed the dizzying height to the Dwarf who sat on the throne beneath a reset Arkenstone, and wore a mourning cloak.

“Heavy is the season where many have lost friends and family.” Dain said, his voice dissimilar to Thorin’s, but still echoing in the cavern. “Daughters and son of Bard of Lake-Town and Esgaroth upon the Long Lake, I greet you in my chambers and welcome you to the Kingdom of Erebor.”

Tilda and Bain bowed low, Sigrid bending as far as she could without pain.

“We are greeted by you and your house, King Dain.” Bain said shakily.

The King made a dismissive gesture. “We are friends and allies. We shall do away with formalities for now.” He leaned forward. “I suppose you are wondering what brings you to my kingdom today, yes?”

“We are curious, sir.” Tilda said.

“There is a need to discuss many things, such as Esgaroth’s repayment for their valor in battle, and of Dale, and economics, and things I can assign to Dwarves with half again as many decades in experience. I wanted to invite you here, and make you welcome to come where needed because you three are the best representatives, ambassadors if you will, of the town of Men. I won’t be that King and take over all the surroundings. No, no. I have no interest or desire for the sky or what is under it.”

Dain stood, and his leg creaked.

“Come now, let us retire to a more comfortable room, and I’ll have Bombur bring us some delightful treats.”

He waved them along as he expertly crossed the walkway, and they followed obediently.

“Will you keep the gold floor?” Tilda asked as they crossed through the Hall of Kings.

“What? Oh, yes, most likely. The dragon prints, too. It is a fitting memorial to the valiant last stand, and the ousting on the beast.” He chuckled. “Naturally there will be a small tapestry portraying the felling of the dragon by your father. He was a brave man, and rather hardy. Once my lads picked him up for a reported theft. We held him for a week, and for a Man, that is not a comfortable stay. He walked out of our prison after his name was cleared, hale and like he hadn’t just been locked up in a musty, wet place of misery.”

Tilda just nodded. She hadn’t heard that story. Bain was giggling. Their father often told that story, but with more embellishment. He enjoyed hearing the Dwarven side of it.

Dain pushed a door open and invited them into a mildewed, but plush office.

“My study, although it hasn’t been properly cleaned out. I apologize for that. Please, take a seat.”

The children of Bard entered before the King and sat in grossly mismatching chairs facing a large desk that seemed to have survived the last desolation of the great worm. Dain sat at a more comfortable chair, tugging a cord on the wall, and picking up a sheaf of papers.

“So, to business, and I will not keep you long. In my conversations with the Company and with my advisors I learned that Esgaroth is currently without a leader, yes?”

Sigrid half nodded and signed.

“We have been representing Esgaroth since the death of our father and the previous Master.” Tilda said.

“Are you familiar with the positions of leadership?” Dain made no mention of Sigrid’s muteness, still addressing her.

Sigrid shrugged.

“I’ve learned a little.”

“Ah. Well, I fear that I meddle too much, but your little town needs some sort of master or steward, and I was hoping that, given your ancestry, one of you three would step into the position.”

“That isn’t quite how we’ve done it. Our officials are elected, though the Master always skewed elections towards himself. I think we need to leave it up to the people to decide who should lead us.”

“That settles that.” Dain scratched on the paper with a quill and ink. “Next on the list of business is Dale, which currently lay in ruin.”

Sigrid and Tilda signed back and forth, and whispered with Bain.

“We wish to rebuild and reclaim it. Perhaps some of our people can once more inhabit the town, and we can reconnect our old ties and trading routes.” Bain said.

“Consider it yours. Like I said, Dwarves don’t care for the open sky, though I may raise an argument over minerals under the town. The only time I want to see that much blue is a major strike of lapis lazuli.” The King laughed to himself.

Sigrid explained what lapis lazuli was to Tilda.

“I will help as much as possible in the rebuilding and financing of Dale and Esgaroth. Your town already has a considerable purse set aside, and we have many willing bodies to assist in the hard labor.”

A small Dwarf arrived with a tray of warm, fluffy pastries, and four mugs of pungent tea. Dain took them with relish, and mixed in a small cube of precious sugar.

“These are the best. Have you had Dwarven pastries?” Dain asked, waving the Dwarf off.

Bain, who had a sweet tooth, attacked the pastries ravenously.

“Thank you! They’re so good!” He said through a mouthful of dough and fruit jam.

Dain laughed, “It’s very good to see someone so eager for our food! Help yourself, lad!”

The laugh was friendly and informal, so much unlike the previous ruler. Sigrid felt comfortable and welcomed. She joined in, laughing and eating, and talking.

***

Another Dwarf came to their home, which, now, was almost normal. The Dwarves came and went, supervising the rebuilding effort, consulting with the new “rulers,” and giving advice. These Dwarves, however, came in silence, and asked the three to accompany them to Erebor. Their somber trek ended with the children escorted into the depths of the mountain. There was a room lined with stone caskets, three new ones sat open without lids.

“Dis, the lad’s mother and Thorin’s sister, will have my beard for this.” The bald Dwarf said.

“We haven’t finished carving their lids,” Dain said quietly. Everyone’s voices echoed in the cavern. “Still, we are here to pay our respects to those who came before us.”

***

Spring arrived in a flurry of new activity. Under Sigrid’s guidance, with the aid of an advisor from Erebor, the town flourished and regrew. The money that Dain allotted flowed into town and back out, through trade routes reestablished. Come summer, Bain took a handful of families, masons, and craftsmen to Dale to focus on rebuilding the old city in the shadow of Erebor. With their careful hand, the two towns bloomed in otherwise dead lands. Dwarves and Men came and went, trading, living, growing, and creating a life better than had been just months before.

The people of Lake-Town – now Esgaroth – no longer look at the Lonely Mountain – no longer lonely – with a nod and a curse, but with gladness and thankfulness. If not for the tenacity of a company of thirteen, and the braveness of a man with a Black Arrow, change would not have come so quickly, fortunes would not have been made, and bonds strengthened. On the one-year anniversary of The Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves and Men met again on the field to pay tribute and remember those who died that day, and even to pay their respects to the great beast, the Dragon Smaug.

Sigrid smoothed her skirts and looked at the assembled and began to sign. Her sister, standing beside her, cleared her throat, and began to translate.

“Thank you all for coming.”

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who stuck with me through my lazy posting, thank you. Everyone who has given me encouragement, and told me to keep going, I love you all. I know this isn't the kind of story people want to read here, but this is the kind of story I wanted to write.
> 
> To everyone who made it this far:
> 
> Happy 2016, and as Sigrid said, thank you all for coming.


End file.
